


Midnight in the City of a Hundred Spires

by shiftylinguini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clubbing, Creature Fic, Dark Humor, Dreams, Drinking, First Time, Getting Together, Grinding, H/D Erised 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hopeful Ending, Intrigue, Light Angst, M/M, Mystery, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Private Investigator Draco Malfoy, Private Investigators, Sleep Paralysis Imagery, Smoking, Vampire Draco Malfoy, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21957718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini
Summary: Harry Potter is a missing person. Draco Malfoy is a vampire. They are the last two people one would expect to bump into each other in a Creature Bar in Prague, yet to Draco’s absolute shock that isdefinitelyHarry fucking Potter sitting across from him.Even more surprising is that Potter may have a case for him.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 124
Kudos: 1436
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	Midnight in the City of a Hundred Spires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kedavranox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedavranox/gifts).



> Dear Nox. I don't know you well, but I have admired your writing since I first read The Voldemort Manor many years ago, and I was so excited to be assigned to write for you!! I spent 45 years agonising over what to give you, and I hope you enjoy this mish-mash of your prompts and likes! Have a wonderful holiday
> 
> Huge HUGE thanks to my betas for being saintly and looking this over for me, and to all those I have whinged and griped at while writing this!! 
> 
> Lastly, I have so much gratitude to the mods of this fest, for allowing me the extra time needed to finish this off and being so wonderfully accommodating and supportive! 
> 
> **A/N:** There is also one instance of homophobia from a family member which is referred to in this fic.

***

 _1999, London._

When Draco turns nineteen, three things happen. 

Well, a lot of things happen. He gets several haircuts, he gets spat at on the streets on the regular, and he grows an inch, to name just a few boring items on his 1999 agenda. The mundane, the everyday―it happens, and it happens and it happens again. It’s not the worst year of Draco’s life, because that’s still a toss up between the year Harry Potter refused to be his friend (wanker) and the year Harry Potter refused to let Draco die in a fire ( _heroic_ wanker). 

Despite all this precedent, though, the year that Draco turns nineteen there are three things which really stand out as vying for first prize in the ‘Shit on Draco Malfoy’ Olympics:

Firstly, Draco isn’t asked back to Hogwarts. 

He’s not overly surprised by this, although his mother is, based on the histrionics pouring from her room when she finds out. Draco’s somewhat relieved; there’s nothing for him there except guilt, and the need to watch his back, and the lingering smell of smoke in every hallway and behind each glowering statue. Draco’s haunted by that scent now. 

Secondly, he gets himself kicked out of home for blowing the gardener behind the sheds near the ornamental carp pond. 

Draco’s father has never hit him before, never raised his voice. Lucius has been subdued since the war ended, since his side lost and crumbled. Draco had never entertained the idea that there would be a closeness between them after the war, but he never anticipated the seething resentment his father apparently festered towards Draco, either. Draco’s no saint, but his father has done much worse. This is simple fact, and one that must have been eating a hole in Draco’s father’s heart for some time considering the strength with which his fist hit the wall beside Draco’s head. 

Draco’s father has never hit him before, but Draco could tell that afternoon that he _wanted_ to. Apparently, reigniting a genocidal war, attempting murder after murder, and dropping their family in a collossal pile of steaming shit is somehow trumped by Draco liking cock. _Hypocrisy, thy name is Lucius Malfoy_ , Draco mused later on, chest numb and ears ringing as he packed his bags and left. 

If he waited, his father might have cooled down and let Draco stay. He already looked regretful when Draco marched past him, but Lucius won’t be the first to say something. His mother would have demanded a resolution, had she known. But Draco is many things, and while Slytherin cunning and self-preservation are top of that list, _stubborn_ is right up there, too. His father’s never hit him before, and Draco’ll be damned if he hangs around to see if someday Lucius actually will. Draco’s a coward, but he’s also proud, and it seems his pride will trump a roof over his head. Maybe leaving _is_ self-preservation, at the end of the day; the Manor is full enough of weighty ghosts and failed expectations as it is. Time for a new beginning on his own two feet. 

That new beginning lasts all of a few days. It’s not Draco’s fault, truly, because the third thing that happens to Draco is: he dies. 

And then he comes right back to life again. It’s all… rather anticlimactic.

It occurs two weeks after leaving the Manor, in the company of a tall man with the most impressive pair of incisors Draco’s ever seen. It’s amazingly unexpected and brilliantly inconvenient, and Draco doesn’t even notice it’s happening until what he thought was going to be a quickie behind the back of the Knockturn Alley pub Draco’s been staying at turns into, " _Oi, watch your teeth on my ne―_ "

And then, lights out. 

The lights come right back on again, of course, leaving Draco dizzy and confused, and with a coppery tang in his mouth, and suddenly things slot into place. The man kissing his neck, a sharp pain in his throat, a dizzying high that turned into just being dizzy, and alarm bells fading out as Draco faded out with them. The whopping great big _fangs the bloke had, holy shit_. 

The first two events in Draco’s 1999 were already impressively disruptive on their own, but this third is a _dinstinctly_ unique pain in the fucking arse.

***

_2003, Prague._

Dying is painless. Being undead is easy. Surviving a decades-long war in which he was on the wrong side was a piece of fucking cake. 

Dating, in light of those aforementioned factors, is really bloody _not_. 

Draco sighs, tapping long fingers against the bar counter in front of him. His gin and soda water sits barely touched, ice cubes sweating. Every now and again he can hear them clink as they melt, shifting around in the glass. It's an annoyingly posh glass, even by Draco's standards, and he was raised on blown Venetian crystal. There's a sprig of rosemary in there too, nestled in with a sad sphere of sliced cucumber. Draco wants to petulantly lob it across the room at the couple sat in a booth nearby, so clearly having a lovely evening. So clearly _together_. Draco’s loneliness curdles inside him. He eats the cucumber instead of pelting it at anyone, in an impressive display of self-restraint and maturity. Pity there’s no one here to admire how much he’s grown. 

Draco slumps in his chair, then rests his elbow on the bar and his chin in his cupped palm. His date is not going to show up. This whole evening was a waste of effort and hair product. It's hard enough to find someone who's willing to give Draco a go given his, well, _bitey_ proclivities. Nevermind that he's never taken an un-asked for nip out of anyone, _never mind_ that he wouldn’t dream of laying a tooth on someone who didn't expressly let Draco know they were up for it beforehand. That's never been Draco's thing. It shouldn't really be anyone's, but Draco's not an idiot. He's aware of what some vampires do. He's a product of it. 

It takes more than a bite to make a vampire, Draco knows this. Draco can bite all of London, take a sip from everyone he can lay his teeth on, and they will be as vampiric afterwards as the cucumber slice Draco just petulantly bit into. That's not how this works. 

He doesn’t know if the rest of the world is aware of this, though. In his experience, some people have been, while others were clearly terrified of so much as accidentally nicking their lip on Draco’s teeth. He can’t really begrudge them their ignorance, as it isn’t as though he knew better before he joined the realms of the undead. 

He’ll never understand what it was that made the one who bit him want to turn him, either. They barely talked. A shared drink under dim club lights, cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes and teenage angst fogging Draco's senses. They stumbled outside, and Draco felt giddy with rebellion, and heartsick too, and just a little bit regular sick from that last tequila sunrise. There was so much kissing, and it was brilliant, and then. 

And then Draco wasn't human anymore. 

The vampire was gone when Draco regained consciousness, in an alleyway and with the metallic taste of blood coating his mouth and warming his insides. It takes more than a bite to make a vampire—vampiric magic has to be shared, drunk down in greedy gulps by the dying prey should the vampire be feeling generous, or broody, or whatever the fuck was going through the bloke’s head when he decided to turn Draco that night.

Perhaps he just recognised Draco and decided to be a royal prick and give him eternal life to live on in infamy. 

Draco scrunches his face up, then runs his tongue along his teeth. Blunt, blunt, blunt. There’s nothing sharp and unnatural in there right now; they’ll only lengthen when he wants them to. He very much does not want that right now. He wants another gin, one that comes in a glass the size of a fishbowl that Draco can properly drown his sorrows in. Long teeth would only get in the way of the straw. 

Lord, he’s in a stink of a temper now. 

With that, Draco stands, fully accepting his date is an utter farce and his mood is completely tanking along with it. He’ll be damned if he’ll spend the evening in a bar he doesn’t care for, getting poked in the eye by a sprig of rosemary every time he tries to take a swig of his drink, and being stood up by some tosser. Etienne, Draco thinks his name was. He looked fit on the dating app. Draco will have forgotten about him by tomorrow. 

He leaves a pile of notes and coins on the bar (possibly too much, Merlin knows Draco can’t get his head around the Koruna-to-Euro-to-Galleon exchange rate) and then heads out to find somewhere more palatable to drink. 

The night is warm and still as Draco exits the establishment, his back straight and his hands in his pockets. The streetlights have flickered on, illuminating the few people around and glinting off the windows of parked cars. It catches on Draco's hair, and then on the silver signet ring on his smallest left finger as he drags it through the white-blond strands. His heels click on the stone pavement, a comforting sturdy rhythm that blends into the night-time sounds of the city. 

Draco blends in, too, as he walks away.

***

The Opal Cauldron is a shithole, but a divinely welcoming one. Draco knows the way there by heart. 

He’s been in Prague for just shy of two months now on his most recent case. He’s not ashamed to say that the first thing he did when he arrived was to find out the best places for those of his kind. It always pays to know the safe spots, beyond just where the general wizarding community can be found. The banks, the bars, the places it’s safe to be openly into other men, the places it’s safe to be openly inhuman. Draco’s hardly vulnerable, but he’s aware that he could be. Should someone follow him home, should there be threats upon the small Blood Suppositories set up across Europe to keep his kind in fresh donated blood without endangering anyone. At least that's what they're supposed to do; any vampire worth their salt will admit it does nothing to stop the craving for a fresh vein. That's why people hate creatures like him so much. It's only natural. 

That's why Draco relies on real donors, not blood bags. He has contacts these days, and very good ones. He's smart, and he's safe, and he could still end up on the pointy end of a wooden stake despite it all. Knowing as much as he can is his best precaution; he makes it his business to do this for every place he goes to. As a private eye, it’s essential. As a queer vampire, it’s survival. 

Draco loves his job; it’s his life. It gives him reason to get out of bed every evening, bathing in fresh moonlight and preparing to find out what awful things the regular folks have been getting up to behind their loved ones’ backs. And getting paid to do it, no less. He’s a snoopy enough fucker as it is; he’d stick his nose in people’s business for free, really. He’s thrilled to find there is a market for surreptitiously gathering the secrets of those who think they are being ever so carefully devious, and reporting back to those who will line Draco’s pockets for this information. Everyone's got secrets, or things to hide, whether big or small, even more so given all the power vacuums left in the wake of the War. Work for a private investigator is thriving, even one with as undesirable a last name as the one Draco is blessed with. ( _Thank you, Daddy Dearest, your terrible decisions will never cease to haunt me. Kisses._ )

There is a plus side to being the son of a Death Eater, and a newly turned Dark creature himself. He’s both seen and invisible at the same time. As a social pariah, he can get around quite well in the seedier parts of the wizarding world. The ones who do recognise him don't want anything to do with him, and the ones who don't know him just… don't give a shit. It suits Draco quite well. 

He’s not been recognised once here, anyway. The infamy of the Malfoys and their role in the War hasn’t really extended outside of the UK, and fair enough. Draco wouldn't expect wizarding communities in the Czech Republic to have really given much of a toss about him or his family. They’ve had their own political nightmares to navigate, corrupt officials and those who were in Voldemort’s pockets. Lucius Malfoy is hardly unique in being a seedy political climber. Draco would have happily followed in his father’s footsteps if he hadn’t had a wakeup call in the form of… well, developing a moral compass. Small mercies. 

Draco weaves in and out of the scant crowds, watching his feet as he heads towards The Opal Cauldron. He knows it’s nearby, and for all that his date was a bust, he’s due a celebration. He’s wrapped up this case, or as good as wrapped it up. He’s just waiting to be paid, and to have confirmation that Aneta is satisfied Draco has proved her husband is not only cheating but also fabulously bankrupting them on a Doxy-smuggling scheme that is going to go absolutely tits-up any day now. Which Draco _has_ proved, as far as he’s concerned, beyond any shadow of a doubt. He’s really very good at his job, and Aneta’s husband is really very stupid. 

Daco times his steps to land on whole paving slabs, avoiding stepping on the cracks where he can. He’d be driving the people around him spare, were there more people around, but this isn’t a thriving part of the city at 10pm. The streets are winding, the bare brick walls around him slightly sinister with their rough edges and looming height. It’s safe around here, though. Draco’s the most dangerous thing on these little streets at the moment. And he’s incredibly well-behaved. 

It’s down a flight of stairs, then a left towards the river, and Draco’s almost there. The building used to be a house, he thinks, something small and rundown. As a bar, it’s been around since the '80s, a little safe-haven for the undead and the unholy, those who aren’t especially popular amongst the wizarding and Muggle communities alike. Werewolves, Succubi, bloodsuckers like Draco, and all manner of other beings that Draco never knew existed: the Baubai and Strigoi, the Wendigo and fae Changelings. It’s amazing how small his world had been, growing up the privileged only son of rich, pure-blood high-society flyers. All his fear was displaced towards Muggles and the threat they supposedly posed, when there were so many other things that wanted to take a bite of him. 

Dying has done wonders for his world view. 

The door to The Opal Cauldron is deceptively dull. Little flecks of dust come off on the backs of Draco’s knuckles as he raps them against it in the specific rhythm needed to gain him entry. His mouth twists in distaste as he flicks his fingers to cast the dust away; someone has clearly been overdoing the Concealing Charms here. There’s no need for the door to be bloody disintegrating off its hinges. He tucks his hands back into the pockets of his jacket. It’s tan leather, coming to his waist bomber style. The evening isn’t quite chilly enough to warrant a jacket, considering he’s wearing a long-sleeved white shirt underneath, however it’ll be cold later. Draco will likely be out until the wee hours of the morning, before he needs to retire to avoid the sunrise. 

It’s been three years since he saw a sunrise. He does miss it, for all that he never appreciated it when it was his to observe pain-free. 

He shakes all thoughts aside of the mornings he won’t have as the door swings open, and Gerhalt ushers him inside with a close-lipped smile and a genial pat on the shoulder. Draco lets the warmth of the bar and the syrupy combination of thrumming bass and rowdy chatter swallow him whole.

***

Draco's barely been in the bar for five minutes when he sees him. 

Okay, that's a lie. He's in a booth and almost finished his elderflower martini when Draco sees him, but in his defense, Potter was wearing a fucking ugly motorbike helmet when he first strolled through the door. 

And it is him. It is _Harry fucking Potter_ , in a little-known Creature Bar, in Central Europe, on a sodding Tuesday night. 

Draco's so gobsmacked, then _angry_ , then confused, that he takes a full moment to just stare open-mouthed at him. He feels like the shock of it has given him heartburn. His chest is aching as his heart thumps against his ribcage. 

Potter shouldn't be here. Potter _can't_ be here, because no one has seen the boy wonder for at least three years. No one. The _Prophet_ 's been having kittens about it, running tireless articles on where he's gone, why he's gone, who he's run off with. He's undercover in Spain, he's an Unspeakable of the highest ranking, he's gone Muggle and joined MI5. His body's lying in a forest in Devon, bones scattered by the smallest creatures and carrion birds. That last one caused a riot, condemnation falling on the paper for daring to even think it. The _Prophet_ retracted, of course, and apologised. But it was meaningless; everyone _was_ already thinking it. It's hard to imagine a person disappearing without a trace without assuming the bleak worst. 

But Potter's apparently none of those things. He's just… right there, messy hair and boyish cheeks and easy smile. It's so familiar it makes Draco's nails scratch against the wood of his table as he stares. 

Draco feels suddenly overwhelmed, so oddly betrayed that he can barely move. His chest feels tight, anxiety cluttering up his throat and clambering up into his skull. It bangs loudly against his brain. No one has seen Potter for years, nor heard from him, nor known his whereabouts. The year after the war, he vanished, the Boy Who Lived and who apparently can disappear too. People worried for him. People feared the worst for him. 

_Draco_ feared he was—well. 

Draco shuts his eyes in a hard, stern blink. He can't think about that. When he opens them again, Potter is still sitting there, smiling and unconcerned, chatting to a man who looks to be in his twenties. Who knows how old he really is, considering where they are. Potter shakes his hair out of his eyes, leans back to casually sling his arm over the back of his chair. His scar is hidden. His forehead is bare. It's him, though. Draco knows it. He's not even wearing a Glamour.

It's when Harry straightens up again, that he sees Draco. 

For the briefest moment, their eyes meet. It's not for long, merely seconds even. Just a glance barely shared. It's too much for Draco. He knows Harry recognises him. Draco hasn't changed much. He's striking, if not pretty, and he always will be. He was striking well before vampiric blood ever touched his lips. He's sure he looks the same as the boy Harry loathed at school. 

He can't stand being seen by Potter. The feeling hits him hard, and sudden, and he's standing before he really registers it. His body knows what it's doing; it's running this show. _Time to flee, darling_ , it has decided before Draco's mind has a chance to catch up. Wide green eyes are watching him go, but Draco doesn't look back. His hands are shaking.

When he steps out of the Floo of his own rented flat, he finally draws in a shaking breath. It catches in his lungs like he's breathing in fire.

***

It's stupid to go back to the same bar. Draco is not a stupid man. 

He does do stupid things though, this he can admit about himself. Quietly, in the most personal parts of his mind. Never out loud, and never to Pansy, thank you. But to himself he is quite true. 

He tries to focus on the fact that at least he's self-aware about being a fucking moron as he steps back into the welcoming, seedy gloom of The Opal Cauldron the very next night. 

Potter is waiting for him. 

It's clear that's what he's doing. In the booth Draco occupied the night before, Potter is sat with a pint of glistening lager perched atop a plain black coaster. He doesn’t look up when Draco enters but his posture is tense. He’s aware of the room, of what’s going on around him. It’s busy in here tonight, for a Wednesday. Draco would bet that Potter knows Draco’s arrived, that he clocked it the second Draco walked in. Potter’s always been far more astute about his surroundings than he’s appeared. 

Draco decides to play it cool—or at least as cool as Potter is playing it. He heads to the bar and pauses in front of it, with his back carefully turned to Potter. He has no idea what’s going to happen from here, but he knows at least two things: Harry Potter is alive and well, and Harry Potter is waiting for him. 

As he orders a Negroni, Draco contemplates a third factor which also seems likely given their respective location—Harry Potter is either looking for Dark creatures, or he is one himself. 

That thought rather blanks out Draco’s mind. He can tell Potter isn’t a vampire. Draco can sense his own kind, although he’d be fucked if asked to explain how. He just knows when other vampires are around, can pick up their presence in the air around him as though he had little supernatural antennae on his head. Draco thinks it’s a survival mechanism. Vampires are a bit like wild jungle cats, in a way. Solitary, territorial, silent and instinctively predatorial. They don’t like being around each other, not really, although they will tolerate it for the sake of bars like this one, for passing on information, or for company should eternal life get truly, unbearably lonely. It’s useful to know where the others of his ilk are, as well as making sure that they don’t feed on each other. If there’s one thing Draco knows it’s that undead blood is not good for him, or _dead_ blood for that matter. It won’t kill him, but it is toxic, and will make him powerfully sick. Vampires don’t feed on each other, and they don’t drink the blood of corpses. It’s useful to be able to tell who is who, in that regard. 

No, Potter is not here because he’s a vampire. So he must be something else, Draco reasons. Or he’s a hunter and he’s here to off them all. There are people like that around, who hate the so-called darker creatures of the world, want to see them all burn. If Potter is here for that, though, then he’s done an astounding job by even getting in the door. Even finding out where The Opal is, for that matter, let alone gaining enough trust to sit there calmly enjoying a pint. 

Draco picks up his own drink, the liquid crimson and syrupy, and takes a sip before turning to walk over to Potter’s booth. His gaze is hard. He slips into the booth and sits down without saying hello, and valiantly manages not to flinch when Potter meets his eyes. There’s nothing accusatory on his face; his expression is blank. His hair is longer than it was when Draco had last seen him at Hogwarts, years ago. The curls are a little wilder, less messy now but still unruly. He doesn’t really look that much older. At twenty-three, Draco supposes, neither of them are really much older than teenagers. Draco himself looks exactly as he did at nineteen. He’ll look that way forever, now. 

"Hi," Potter says, after another slow minute of staring each other down ticks by. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Draco replies harshly. The tremble in his voice surprises even him. 

Potter picks up his pint, and takes a slow sip. It leaves his upper lip damp. "I could ask you the same thing," he states in a calm and measured tone. Draco feels the exact opposite of calm. His fingers tighten around his cool glass. 

"No you couldn't," he spits in response, leaning forward. "It’s clear why I’m here, I _belong_ here." He resists the urge to bare his teeth, let his fangs descend. "This is where my kind are often found." Any doubts he had about whether Potter was aware of what had happened to Draco are gone when Potter’s eyes flick down to his mouth and away again. 

"So you are, then," Potter mutters, almost to himself. He’s looking at his beer. 

Draco lets his lips curl into a sneer. "So I am." He takes a mouthful of his drink, lets the bitter Campari roll around his tongue as he fights to regain some composure. "And what are you?"

Potter shrugs. "I’m nothing," he replies. It’s casual, and clearly a lie. 

"Bullshit." 

Potter looks up sharply at Draco’s words. He scowls. It’s exactly as magnificent as Draco remembers, getting a rise out of Potter. He feels like he’s gaining a little of the upper hand back. 

"You’re clearly something," Draco presses. "To be here, to get a foot in the door. What is it, werewolf? Shapeshifter? Zombie?" Draco suggests unkindly. 

Potter shakes his head. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. I’m nothing," he repeats. He folds his arms across his chest, defiant and casual. Draco knows he’s lying, he must be. He can’t tell what it is specifically he’s lying about, though. Draco hates not knowing. 

"It’s something." Draco folds one arm across his stomach, mirroring Potter’s posture. He keeps the other outstretched, fingers curved around his glass. "It must be. You’re _something_." 

Potter half-smiles, the twist of his mouth wry. "Is that a compliment?" 

"Oh, get fucked," Draco snaps, his voice heated and his face heating, too. "Stop twisting this conversation around and refusing to answer the bloody question!"

"Calm down, Malfoy," Potter mutters, using two fingers to align his coaster with the grain of the wood on the table between them. "Don’t get your knickers in a twist." 

"My knick—are you fucking with me, here?" Draco hisses, then leans close once more. "Do you know that you are a missing person, Mr ‘ _oh I’m nothing, don’t mind me, off the grid for three fucking years and now sat in a creature bar_ ’?"

Something flashes in Potter’s eyes, and he looks away. Draco doesn’t know what the expression is. "The people who matter know where I’ve been." Potter’s voice is soft but his expression surly. He sounds a little guilty, and extremely defiant. Draco quickly looks away before bringing his drink to his lips. He struggles to swallow his mouthful. 

Draco can’t explain why Potter saying that stings. It has no right to. Draco was never a friend, or close, or even bloody _nice_ to Potter before. Potter saved him, true, but not because he liked him. Potter saved the fucking world. He’s just a good person. Draco has no right to be bothered by being amongst the swarms of people who don’t matter to Harry Potter. And yet, it stings, just like that rejected boyhood handshake did. He focuses on his bitter drink, and not on the bitterness churning in his stomach. 

Around them, the bar has picked up steam, the music growing louder and the conversation of the patrons getting rowdier with it. Draco clears his throat. "So what do you want from me, then?"

Potter frowns at him. "What? Who says I want anything?"

"You say it." Draco gestures at Potter as he raises his glass to his lips. "You being here, you waiting for me. You want something." He takes a sip. "Don’t be shy, we’re all friends here now." He can’t keep the disdain out of his voice as he says the word _friends_. He hopes to god he keeps the hurt out of it, though. 

Potter’s frown deepens. "I don’t want―" he starts, but Draco _tsks_ , interrupting him. 

"Now now, Potter. Mustn’t tell lies." 

Potter does flinch at those words. He recovers quickly, before Draco can probe further into it. "Fine. I want. Just." Potter sighs, runs his hands through his hair. He adjusts his glasses. "I saw you last night. You saw me." Potter spreads his hands as if the answer is obvious. Draco shrugs, deciding not to make it easy for him. If Potter wants something, he’s going to have to use his big boy words. "Don’t tell anyone you saw me. Please," Potter adds, after a moment, belatedly polite. Draco almost wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. He keeps his expression plain, instead. 

"That’s all? Not mention I saw you?" 

Potter nods tightly. 

"Mmm." Draco pretends to think. "I have to say, if this is how you’ve eluded discovery for all these years, just politely asking people not to disclose they saw you, it’s an unusual approach. But I could be amenable to that. You’ll have to make it worth my while, though."

"What?" Potter scoffs, leaning forward now too. His fringe falls into his eyes and he shakes it away in annoyance. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"Offer me something I want, of course." Draco smiles sweetly. 

Potter remains nonplussed. "Like what, you want money?"  
.  
"Oh, hardly." Draco makes a face as though he’s smelt something unpleasant. "How crass. No, keep your gold, Potter," he says dismissively. 

"What do you want, then?" Potter looks annoyed and wary, but under that, genuinely curious. Draco likes that expression on him. 

"I want an explanation," he responds. As Potter’s expression turns confused, Draco goes on. "You’re not going to give me a straight answer about why you’re here, fine, but I want _something_. Where you’ve been, why you’ve gone ghost on the wizarding public that so adores you." Draco crosses one ankle over the other, leans back in his chair. "That’s all," he finishes sweetly, as though he hasn’t just asked for something quite monumental. Whatever. In for a Sickle, in for a Galleon. 

"Why do you want to know that?" Potter asks, eyes narrowing. 

Draco shrugs. "It’s what I do. I ask questions. I find things out. I’m nosey." He cocks his head to the side. "And I’m a private investigator. I make it my business to know other people’s business." Draco waits to see Potter bristle at this information. Right on cue, Potter tenses. 

"Who are you planning to tell?" he snaps, suspicion deeply colouring his tone. 

Draco waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, get over yourself, Potter, you’re not that highly sought after," he lies. It’s total horseshit, and both of them know it. Information on Harry Potter’s whereabouts is incredibly highly sought after. "I’ll tell no one. I am the soul of discretion." Draco drops his smile to show he’s being serious here. "But these are my terms. Indulge my curiosity, and it will go no further than this table here." Draco spreads one palm across the wooden table to emphasise his point. 

For the first time since their conversation began, Potter looks as if he’s on the back foot. He takes a drink, and then another one, clearly debating internally what he wants to do. He pushes his hair away from his forehead roughly, leaving it mussed when he draws his hand away. His scar is visible tonight, as though he hasn't bothered to Charm it hidden this evening. There’s something on his face, an expression Draco thinks looks like resignation, or perhaps even sadness. If Draco didn’t know better, he would say Potter is almost relieved at the prospect of being verbally manhandled into revealing what he’s been up to. Draco sits perfectly still, watching the lightshow of emotions flicker across Potter’s face. He’s always enjoyed watching Potter. He allows himself a moment to indulge in it unabashedly. 

Eventually, Potter shrugs. He breathes a soft sigh. "Fine. I suppose I don’t have a choice here, anyway."

"Oh, tsk, Potter, no need to be so dramatic," Draco chides, pulse quickening in excitement. He loves getting what he wants. "One always has a choice." 

Potter rolls his eyes, mutters something Draco can’t quite catch. Before Draco can ask, Potter goes on. "I’ve been. I'm looking for someone. Some… thing." Potter meets Draco’s eyes, his expression final. 

As far as explanations go, this is far from what Draco is hoping for. "That’s it?" he asks, nonplussed. "You’re looking for some _one_ , and or thing?"

"Yep," Potter replies blithely, popping the P. "That’s it. And before you ask, no, I do not care to expand on that in any way, and yes, that is all you are getting." 

"Potter." Draco levels him with an unimpressed look. 

"Fine, I’m just." Potter’s voice is irritated but he goes on anyway. "I’m looking for something, an answer I need, and the person or people who might know it. Or…" Potter shrugs his shoulders. "Who might know where I should look next. That’s it." Potter’s tone is final. "That’s all you’re getting, Malfoy."

Draco twists his mouth contemplatively, mulling this information over. It’s vague, but also undoubtedly intriguing. "And you’ve been doing this for three years?" Draco raises one eyebrow. "You can’t be very good at it, Harry."

The first name feels foreign on his tongue, and equally as thrilling. 

Potter stares at him for a long moment. Draco is braced for a tirade, for Potter to get up and leave. "It’s hard to find," is all Potter gives him instead. 

"For you, perhaps," replies Draco flippantly. He’s incredibly glad the conversation is still going. He’s dying to know more. It’s burning him up inside. 

Potter shifts his gaze slightly to the left of Draco, then shakes his head. His expression has slipped into that sad almost-resignation Draco thought he saw before. He’s certain he sees it now. "Difficult for anyone, I imagine," Potter says softly.

"Unlikely." Draco sits up a little straighter, an idea forming in his head. It’s wonderful, and terrible, and he can already feel he’s going to act on it. He hasn’t been this excited by something in months. Years. "Not for someone like me." 

Potter does look at him now, sharply. "Someone like you?"

"An investigator, of course." Draco raises one shoulder, casual and smug. He can’t hide it; he wants this. "I can find them."

Potter blinks. "You seem awfully confident about that for someone who has no idea what I’m even looking for." 

Draco lifts one shoulder again in the same self-assured gesture. "I seem it because I am. Whoever, or whatever it is, I can find them," he repeats. "It's what I do."

"You want me to _hire_ you?" Potter’s voice lifts a little, incredulous. "Do you need the money? Are you that hard up for work?" His words are somewhat harsh, but the tone of his voice isn’t. Potter just looks wary and genuinely confused. 

"Far from it," Draco explains. "I’ve just wrapped up a job. My dance card is clear, for the moment. And I don’t want your money, I’ve already told you that." 

Potter does look suspicious now. "Why would you do this for free?

Draco licks his lips, looking away. "Tit for tat," he explains, his voice rough. He clears his throat before he speaks again, feeling oddly uncomfortable. Exposed. "I think I rather owe you, as it were. For… services rendered. In the Room of Requirement." Draco swallows again, his throat feeling tight. He holds Potter’s gaze, but he can’t say the words, ‘ _for not letting me die in that fire when you had every right to_ ’. He’s sure Potter gets it, regardless. 

Potter sits back in his chair, both arms folded across his chest defensively. He says nothing for what builds into a long and uncomfortable minute. Draco refuses to look away. He wants this.

"Why would I trust you?" Potter asks. "With something like this."

And there’s the kicker. Why would he, or should he even? It’s a miracle Draco’s even got them this far into the conversation. It’s a gamble, what Draco is about to say next. But he does it anyway. "The same reason you just told me what you’ve been doing, and why you waited for me here. Why you’re even talking to me."

He leaves it at that. He doesn’t know exactly what that reason _is_ , for Potter. Is it loneliness, boredom, curiosity? That he sees in Draco a sense of shared history, or just a familiar face in a foreign country? Draco doesn’t know what exactly brought Potter back to this same table to wait for Draco, but he’s sure it’s more than just wanting to make sure Draco keeps his mouth shut about seeing him. There’s no way Potter has managed to keep off the radar this long based just on asking people and goodwill alone. There's something else there. Draco sees it on Potter’s face as he shifts in his chair, mulling Draco’s words over. He looks slightly caught out, but not upset. Perhaps even he didn’t realise there was more to this until Draco put words to it. 

Draco’s sure he’s got him, even if Potter’s not ready to say it. He just has to seal the deal now. He tries not to let himself think about how much he desperately wants this, or why. 

"Think about it," Draco says. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out an inky black pen, and looking around for something to write on. There’s nothing. Potter’s coaster is stark black, and therefore useless, and Draco didn’t bring his notepad. The pen is habit; the notepad is work. He chews his lower lip, pulling the cap of the pen off and exposing the silver nib. Impulsively, he gestures with two fingers towards Potter’s bare arm, then mimes writing with the pen. Potter is wearing a dark denim jack, a grey top underneath. The sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms. He frowns at Draco, obstinately confused. After a moment, he extends one arm anyway with a slow reluctance. 

Draco fights not to roll his eyes. "It’s just a pen, Potter, for pity’s sake, not a serpent." He grabs Potter's arm before either of them can think better of it. He’s got to write his bloody address on _something_. Potter’s skin is all that’s available. 

"Just think about it," he repeats, quickly scrawling the address of the flat he’s temporarily renting on the pale skin of Potter’s inner forearm. He tries not to notice the gentle lilac and blue veins under Potter’s skin. His writing is wobblier than usual, his hand trembling slightly. He fights to keep his grip on Potter’s wrist gentle. "And meet me at this address tomorrow evening if you decide yes." 

Draco lets out the breath he’s been holding, then sits back in his chair. He quickly finishes the last of his drink, then stands. Potter hasn’t said anything, hasn't reacted, and Draco wants to leave as soon as he can and let Potter keep mulling it over. 

The sooner he leaves as well, the sooner he can put off thinking about the fact he’s just told Potter where he lives. 

He allows himself one glance before he exits. Potter is exactly where Draco left him, still staring at the dark writing on his arm. His brow is furrowed, an almost haunted look on his face. He clenches and unclenches his fist, the movement tensing his arm and no doubt making the words appear to move. Draco forces himself to look away and reach for the handle of the door to open it and let the cool evening air caress him. 

Draco already knows he’s got him.

***

It starts to rain around 4am.

Draco is sat in his flat, smoking, when he hears the soft pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the pavement two floors below. He has the window already open, to let the smoke out and the cool night air inside in exchange. He leans out a little, the rain landing gently on his face. He shuts his eyes, then smiles. 

His dramatic exit earlier was worth it, but it does mean he’s had almost an entire evening to kill on his own since. Figuratively, of course; Draco’s murdered nothing, except the three sheets of paper he shredded while puzzling over what Potter could be looking for. Is he hooked on some mysterious drug, or searching for it? Has he lost a lover? Is he looking for one? Draco pushed that thought away rather quickly, but still. He's been restless and excited, almost agitated, and still is. The rain is refreshing, the cigarette calming his nerves, or acting as placebo for it at least. It's not as if it's going to kill him, anyway. 

When there's a knock at the door he startles, grabbing the window frame with one hand and almost dropping his smoke with the other. 

There's only one person it can be. Aneta solely contacts him via correspondence, and their meetings have all been at her residence. She hasn’t come to his place, and has no reason to. Besides her, Draco doesn’t know anyone else in this city, or even this country, who would have cause or desire to visit him. 

Draco stubs the cigarette out on the windowsill then quickly wipes the moisture from his face. He heads down the narrow stairs to the door. 

Potter is wearing the same clothes he had on at the bar. His hair is getting flattened somewhat by the rain, the drops missing his glasses by clear way of magic. Draco thinks he can see purple bags developing under his eyes. Draco's address is plainly visible on Potters arm, the ink starting to smudge away. He's holding something, a Manila folder half tucked under his jacket. It's charmed, but Draco senses Potter was instinctively protecting it from the rain. Draco desperately wants to know what's in it, if Potter bringing it to him means what he thinks it does. 

"Hi." Potter's voice is small, and sounds tired. The rain is picking up in volume, almost drowning his words out. Draco resists the urge to lean closer to hear him. Potter feels like a skittish creature, something Draco doesn't want to scare away. He wants to keep drawing him closer, laying breadcrumb after breadcrumb until he willingly comes close enough to eat out of his hand. 

"Twice in one evening, Potter." Draco smiles. "Anyone would think you like me." 

Potter doesn't say anything back. The rain plasters his hair to his forehead, a dark tangle above his glasses, before he pulls out the folder. He holds it out towards Draco. 

"This is all I've found," he explains. "Names, who I'm looking for, where they might be. Some leads." Potter licks his lips, then shakes the folder in a gesture for Draco to take it. 

As expected, Draco finds the paper dry when he accepts it. Potter looks almost relieved to be handing it over, a tension draining out of his shoulders. His expression remains wary, however. Draco wants to open the folder, to devour all of its secrets, but he doesn't want to do it in front of Potter just now. _Skittish creature_ , he reminds himself. 

Potter nods, and then tucks his hands under his armpits. The rain is ruining his hair, making his clothes wet through. The drops glisten on the metal buttons of his jacket. His posture makes him look young, like the boy Draco used to know, and not at all like him at the same time. The boy Draco knew then never gave things willingly to Draco. 

"Thank you," Draco says, on a sudden wave of emotion. He's not sure why he feels the need to say it. This isn't a gift. This is a job for him, not something he needs to be grateful for. But equally, it _is_. Draco's wanted this: to be helpful to Potter, to be of use, to give something back. It's trite, and it's nonsense, and it's burned Draco up since Potter saved his life. He's so desperately wanted to do something in return, anything. Something that comes close to reparations. 

"I trust you," Potter replies. It's equally as stunning as Draco's blurted thanks, and ten times as unexpected. Draco doesn't know how to react. He thinks maybe it's just lip service but Potter's face looks sincere, serious. The words hit Draco hard and potent. He wants to be worth that trust, however deeply Potter means it. Draco thinks it must be quite a bit; Potter doesn't strike Draco as someone who trusts on a whim. 

"Give me five days," he says with feeling. "Five days and I'll find them."

Potter nods slowly, a ghost of a smile passing over his lips before he turns away.

***

Draco dreams that day. 

He dozes off right before dawn, the curtains drawn tight and a thin sheet spread over his legs. The folder from Potter lies on the small cedarwood desk in the corner, pages reverently turned as Draco devoured its contents. It didn’t reveal too much, but every word was something Potter was allowing him to see, _trusting_ him to see and give due diligence. Draco’s already filled three pages of his own notebook with ideas about where to start, when he forces himself to stop and put it aside. 

He crawls into bed, out of habit more than necessity, and lies there in the predawn half-light. He imagines his toes are drifting off to sleep, then the balls of his feet, his calves, and keeps going as far up his body as he can before his mind switches off. This is what he needs to do to make himself sleep these days. His body simply won’t do it otherwise. 

His dreams are strange. 

He rarely dreams now. He doesn’t need to rest the way he did when he was human, and mortal, and bound by what seems now an incredibly restrictive recovery schedule. Sometimes it feels like his body is in a kind of conservation mode that his mind isn’t limited by. He doesn’t need to eat every day, or possibly at all, although he still enjoys it. He’s not sure he even needs to sleep during the day, but he absolutely must avoid the sun. He stuck his hand out a window once, when he was still learning how to be this new creature and wanted to test his own limits―see what was really true and what belonged between the pages of gothic fiction. He quickly discovered, through searing heat and excruciating pain, that the sun is indeed deadly to his kind. That part has not been exaggerated. 

If he cuts himself, he’ll be healed by the next day without so much as a mark to show where the injury had been. If he’s scorched by the sun, though, he’s not sure it will ever truly heal. Three years later, and he still has a scar on his palm from the burn. 

So, avoiding the light of day is essential. Sleeping during this time is not―and sleeping in a coffin is absolutely not required, unless Draco is inclined to be particularly dramatic. He finds dozing during the day calming though—it soothes something in him. Something _human_ , Draco thinks wryly. However much his body has changed, his mind is still the same. 

When he does sleep, he doesn’t dream. He can’t recall the last time, in fact. That alone would make this dream memorable, even if all that happened in it was him eating a liquorice wand or something equally ordinary. What he does dream, though, is far from mundane. 

There’s a figure in the corner of his room. Draco knows it’s there even though he can barely see it. He has the feeling of being watched, can make out the shine of eyes. The room is pitch black, the kind of dark that only comes from deep night. That’s what clues Draco in to this being a dream. Night time is when he ventures out, when the streets are his to prowl. This dark room, and those shining eyes in the figure’s face, are therefore creatures conjured of his mind. At least, conjured from _somewhere_. 

He can’t move. He’s sure he physically could; there’s nothing wrong with his body. He can feel his legs, his arms, his fingers and toes. The muscles in his neck are taut and strained. He can’t move them though―nothing but his eyes, which scan the room, always landing back on the shape in the room. The shape that is invariably watching him back. 

It’s deeply unsettling, but strangely Draco doesn’t find himself frightened. He doesn’t know what this being is, or what form it takes. It looks like shadow and silhouette now, appears threatening in its ambiguity, its lack of distinguished form. But anything would, Draco reasons. He senses nothing from it. He’s not sure if it wants something, or what it even is. It’s humanoid, he can tell maybe that much from the general shape of it and the gleam of what seems like eyes. Draco thinks he can make out hunched shoulders, perhaps. Like someone crouched in the corner of his room. It’s like trying to see a shape in a dark ocean, though. Nothing is really clear enough to put his finger on it. Still, nothing really scares Draco about it, either, although he thinks perhaps it should. He’s not easy to frighten these days, is the thing. One of the few perks to having already suffered at the hands of a dark being is that he's not sure any others can truly hurt him now. He's not tender meat anymore. 

The figures watches him all day, scoping him out, searching. Draco stays in that place that feels like it exists between waking and dreaming, lucid enough to know what’s going on but still unable to move. Neither he nor the figure move for hours and hours. 

Draco properly wakes in the dim light of evening, but the dream lingers. Draco has no explanation for it. He doesn’t really search for one either. Not yet.

He casts it away to the back of his mind, where all perplexing puzzles and unsolved issues live, and throws himself into finding Potter’s mystery person instead.

***

It takes him three days and three times as many Floo calls to get a really solid lead. 

Her name is Darya. She is deceptively difficult to find, this person Potter is looking for. Draco owes favours now, which is not uncommon, but these sound like _big_ favours people will be calling in. Work done for free. Information he will have to divulge in return for the information he was given. He understands why, though, as soon as he fully realises who Potter is looking for, and how deeply illegal the rabbithole she lives down is. 

Darya is a necromancer. 

Draco finds himself genuinely shocked to uncover this. He knows where she is, now, and what she does. He has a vague idea what she looks like, which is all immensely valuable information to be able to pass on to his client. To pass on to _Potter_. What he doesn't have is any fucking idea why Potter is looking for her, or what he might want from someone who dabbles in this. More than dabbles, even. Someone entrenched in these darkest of magical arts. 

Even so, Draco’s immensely glad to do it. He wants to help Potter. He wants to be useful to Potter, to offer him something. Draco has always wanted Potter’s attention and for it to be _good_ attention. He's settled for negative over the years, but to solve a problem for Potter? Draco’s alive with the desire to come through on this. 

Potter gives nothing away when Draco tells him he’s found his mystery person. For all that he confessed he trusts Draco, Potter remains guarded and elusive when it comes to divulging what his purpose is, what he's seeking from Darya and her ilk. 

Potter's well-researched notes are just as barren in this regard. They are instructive, but devoid of any revealing clues. Draco wonders if they were created specifically to be given to him, and if there are another set of far more revealing notes sequestered away somewhere in Potter’s accommodation. Notes with scribbles in the margins, with more details about why Potter is looking for someone like Darya, why Potter has been following a chain of people to get to her―what exactly he’s searching for answers to. Merlin knows, Draco’s case notes are always covered in tangents and details. 

But Potter has just given him facts, traces, what names and locations he could find himself. Important, of course, but not the whole picture. Not yet. It’s a spider web of intrigue for Draco to follow and get caught up in, and he knows he is. Like a fly tangled in silk, although far less helpless. He’s going in deeper voluntarily. 

Draco arranges to meet with her the next day, and Potter doesn’t object when Draco declares he will be coming with him. He’ll need to do the introductions. Potter is a stranger to these parts, although he made good headway on his own. Draco is better trusted by default, though, being from a Dark family, and with creature magic running through his veins. 

Draco realises, on the third day that he dozes and before the evening of their scheduled meeting with Darya, that he’s also keeping a secret of his own from Potter in turn. 

He’s not an idiot, is the thing. He’s a clever man, and was a clever boy before that. He can connect things quickly in his mind, make the necessary leaps of logic needed to be a good investigator. It’s why he excels at what he does. It’s how he found Darya when Potter couldn’t quite get there. 

Draco’s dreamt of the dark figure in his room every night since speaking with Potter, since helping him with this case. He knows there must be a connection. One doesn’t accept a job to search for a necromancer—for someone who’s got both arms elbow-deep in the grave and beyond—and also dream of looming apparitions, and not see the link there. Or at least, Draco imagines that ignoring the likely connection could lead to some trouble down the line. 

He hasn’t broached the subject with Potter. It’s possible he’ll have no idea what Draco is talking about, or he’ll feign ignorance, or he’ll disappear in the night at the first word of it. Draco doesn’t know enough yet to be able to make an informed decision, to take suitable action, and that’s what he deals in these days. _Information_. 

Besides, it doesn’t seem urgent. The figure has moved closer to him each day, and Draco still recognises it as humanoid in form. It seems like it’s made of shadows, or just of something that isn’t quite there. Like it occupies the spaces where nothing else exists, fills what hollows it can find. His eyes struggle to make it out, but he knows it’s there, and he knows it’s getting closer. It seems drawn to him, whatever it is, as he lies motionless in his bed. It’s featureless, except for eyes that catch the light, and shadowy fingers that touch the edge of Draco’s bed, that crease the sheets as it clenches them in a barely-there fist. It doesn’t feel threatening, but perhaps that’s just a lack of self-preservation on Draco’s part. It’s certainly unsettling, and it’s certainly no ordinary dream. This is something that isn’t coming from Draco's mind. 

Incubus. Succubus. Night Mare. It doesn’t fit Draco’s understanding of any of these creatures. It’s drawn to him, but he doesn’t know why. It hasn't hurt him, but perhaps it just hasn’t found a way to yet. Draco can’t move in these dreams, but he isn’t sure if that’s the shadowy figure’s doing, or if it's the limits of his own mind. He’s lucid, aware of what’s happening, and perhaps this is where the being can exist, can find him―in that space between dreaming and awake, when things are strangest and reality feels paper thin. 

For anyone else, this might be terrifying. It hasn’t left Draco unshaken, but he’s constantly aware that he’s not vulnerable in the ways he used to be, when monstrous serpents roamed the hallways of his childhood home and terrible wizards entered his mind at will. His body is not frail and mortal, Dark creatures can’t feed on him the way they once did when he was still made of tender human flesh. Whatever this is, Draco doesn’t feel intent from it. It seems only a presence, for now, one that creeps closer with tentative steps made of nightfall. Draco watches it back with equal curiosity. 

He’ll keep this secret for now, just as Harry Potter keeps his.

***

The club is called Hůlka. 

It’s in a part of the city that Draco has had scant reason to visit. There’s something unpleasant about it, to him at least. He suspects there is another vampire in the area. There’s a lingering bad taste in his mouth as Draco waits near an alleyway. One that has nothing to do with the cigarette he’s distractedly smoking. 

Potter is not late; Draco is early. They’ve arranged to meet Darya here, in a private room ( _Merlin, could things sound any dodgier_ ), at 1am. It’s twenty to, now, but Draco has been here since midnight. He’s restless and excited, and not a little bit nervous as well. The sun set hours ago, and Draco was already awake hours before that, eager to leave behind strange dreams of dark figures―eager to see Potter again. 

He’s dressed to impress. Draco is aware that if tonight is successful, if Potter receives the information or whatever it is he’s so ardently seeking from this necromancer, then this very well might be the last time he and Potter meet. They’ll have no reason to, once Potter has what he wants, or needs, or whatever he’s being cryptic about. If that be the case, Draco wants to leave him with the best lasting impression he can. 

Of course, he doesn’t exactly want Potter to know that. For this purpose, Draco’s gone for deceptively casual: tight black jeans and laced-up leather boots, a white top with a muted flower design at the chest, and his favourite tan leather jacket. It’s not as nice as the leather jacket Potter was wearing the first night they saw each other. Draco would even go as far as to bet Potter’s is real dragon leather, which is not something easy to come by these days. Draco’s is worn and soft though, artfully made to appear decades older than it is. It suits the pale of his skin and the Nordic blond of his hair. It cost him a mint and he looks amazing. Potter need only to be aware of that final element. 

He turns up just as Draco is finishing his second, nervous cigarette. Draco feels like he’s worn a dent in the brick wall he’s leaning against, he’s been there that long. 

"Potter," he says, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. He uses the moment to surreptitiously check Potter out. He’s dressed down as well, but not so much they won’t get in the door. If there even is a dress policy here; Draco suspects not, based on the people he’s seen tripping in through the front doors. The place seems like a complete dive. Potter looks more than passable in his jeans and dark top, plaid shirt open over it. His sleeves are rolled up again, exposing bare forearms. Draco casts his eyes away from that particular part of Potter. It’s not that he’s prone to a lack of self control when it comes to bare skin, no matter how much he wants the life force running under it. He’s a vampire but not a brute, for pity’s sake. Historically, however, he _has_ had something of a self-control problem when it comes to Potter. 

He’s always noticed Potter was handsome, good looking. It’s another thing entirely to let himself be affected by it. 

"Evening," Potter says, running a hand through his messy hair. "Am I late?" 

Draco shakes his head as he straightens up. "Not in the slightest. I was early. I’m annoyingly punctual these days," he jokes, wryly self-deprecating. It’s better than saying that he had nothing else to do and couldn’t get Potter out of his mind. 

Potter smiles, quickly, then adjusts his glasses. It could be a nervous habit. Draco wishes he knew him well enough to be able to read it properly. 

"Excited?" Draco asks, as he motions towards the door. There’s a heavyset bouncer standing to the left, but there’s no queue. The man doesn’t look like he’s even bothering with IDs. His sole purpose appears to be to loom confrontationally and deter away any people who aren’t deliberately seeking this particular establishment out. Draco feels his mouth twist in distaste. This whole place is already giving him the heebie jeebies. It’s one thing to be a Dark creature. It’s something else entirely to be _crass_ about it. 

Potter snorts, then finally responds. "Excited isn’t the word for it, Malfoy." They both nod at the bouncer as he waves them in with deliberate disinterest. 

The club is even worse on the inside. 

"Merlin," Draco mutters, not bothering to hide his disdain as he scans the room. The decor is old, and not in a vintage way. It's decrepit. There's a cloying smell of old alcohol spilled on infrequently cleaned floors and musky fabrics, of decay and too-sweet incense burnt to try and cover it up. It smells like a badly kept funeral parlour. Draco half expects to see bouquets of dying roses hanging on the walls. The music is too loud, rattling the aged speakers as they do their best to blast the cacophonic sounds over a crowd of listless dancers. At the edge of the crowd, Draco thinks he senses a fellow vampire, but the barrage of sensory information is dulling his ability to tell. There's too much to take in here, in this fetid and too-hot room. Draco can't tell who is human and who is creature, who might be deadly predator and who is just here to drink and be prey. 

Perhaps that's the point of this club's revolting sensory overload. 

Beside him, Potter laughs under his breath. "Not your kind of place?" he jokes, softly. The room doesn't appear to be affecting him the way it is Draco. Draco's oddly glad of that; Potter is the most powerful wizard Draco's ever met. He can't help but feel safe around him, whether that's currently merited or not. Of course, magical ability aside, if Potter doesn't find this club repugnant then he is clearly still an imbecile. 

Draco turns his sneer, preciously aimed at the room, towards Potter. "No," he says crisply. "Just because I drink blood doesn’t mean I have no taste, Harry." 

Potter laughs genuinely this time. Draco can’t ignore the thrill that gives him. 

"It is a bit of a shithole, I guess," Potter belatedly agrees with him, peering around. There’s a bar at the far left of the room, across a dance floor that’s seen better days but probably not seen better patrons. On the other side of the room there are a series of doorways covered by faded velvet curtains. Draco fights the urge to roll his eyes. It’s tacky, and it’s making his skin crawl. 

They walk up to the bar, waiting for the sole barman to amble their way. He's serving a blonde woman with elaborately coiffed hair, and her companion, whose almond-shaped eyes seem to be surveying the room with as much distaste as Draco is. Thank Merlin he's not the only one who doesn't enjoy being smothered in perfume and seventies furniture. 

"They've really committed, haven't they?" Potter's voice is close to Draco's ear as he leans in. His breath ghosts along Draco's neck. "Of all the dodgy places I've been, I think this might be… the dodgiest. In every sense of the word." 

Draco laughs once, soft and under his breath, then slants a glance in Potter's direction. Potter's standing so close that were Draco to turn his head their lips might touch. The thought comes unbidden into Draco's mind, like a seed carried on the wind and landing on fertile ground. It takes root before he can brush it away. His pulse begins to race, the heat of Potter's body where he's pressed close to Draco's back amplifying the cloying heat of the room. 

"And where else have you been?" he inquires, his voice low but loud enough to be heard over the din of music. Draco can feel Potter's intake of breath. He doesn't step away. 

"A lot of places," Potter replies. His breath ghosts along the side of Draco's neck again, over the soft skin behind his ear. 

It's not nearly enough of an answer to be satisfying, but Potter hasn't shut down the line of inquiry either. Draco grabs at it with both hands, gobbling it down, and immediately wants more. He wants to ask, _where have you been, and why, and with who_? He wants to scream, _tell me all your secrets, explain yourself to me, let me make sense of you_! He wants to beg, _meet your Dark Witch, Harry, and get from her what you need, but stay with me after. Let me tell you where I've been_. He wants to give everything and greedily take whatever he can from Potter, let him fill the hollows deep in Draco's chest where human companionship used to lie. 

He senses Potter wants to give it, too. People who aren't desperate to reveal their lonely, solitary burdens don't respond in leading half-answers the way Potter does. They don't stand so close to their childhood rivals and boyhood enemies. They don't lean in when others would lean away, the way Potter is leaning closer now. 

Draco turns his head, running on instinct rather than sense. His nose brushes Potter's cheek, over the faintest of stubble there. Potter's breathing remains even, but deliberately so. The air feels tight around them, thrumming with the vibrations of the music and the tension strung taut between their bodies. Draco feels almost woozy from it, drunk on stimulation. Potter's eyes appear fixated on Draco's lips. Draco licks them, opening his mouth to finally speak. 

The barman ambles over, and Draco's words dry up on his tongue, evaporating like all unspent emotion does. Draco swallows the bitter taste away. 

"What can I get you, gents?" The man grunts, his accent startling in its familiarity. British, or perhaps South African. 

Draco blinks, quickly gathering his wits from where Potter appears to have scattered them. "We've an appointment," he says, his voice scratchy. He clears his throat, remembering his lines. "With management." 

The barman raises one eyebrow. "Oh?" He leans closer, intimidating in his unexpected proximity. "Do you really, now?" 

Draco rests his elbows on the counter, refusing to back away. He knows this dance, has done it many times before. He's pleased to notice Potter doesn't appear bothered in the slightest either, standing next to Draco and with his hands stuffed in his pockets, deceptively unthreatening and presumably close to his wand.

"Yes, really." Draco fights to keep his voice neutral, parroting the string of words he was told would bargain them entry to see Potter's witch. "The delivery arrives on the eleventh. My friend here needs to speak with the Ferryman to confirm." 

Draco tilts his head at Potter when he mentions his _friend_ , but never lets his eyes stray from the barman's. He resists the urge to bare his teeth, let his fangs distend. He wants to, though, wants to see this man flinch and back away. Draco's done it before and revelled in it. There have to be some perks to carrying weaponised biology now is his justification. 

And some people just need a good scare. 

The man frowns as he mulls Draco's words over. Soon enough, he leans back, clearly satisfied with the dreadfully obvious code they've supplied. 

"Wait here," he says gruffly, albeit slightly more pleasantly than before. He raps his knuckles against the wooden bar. 

Draco smiles his most businesslike of smiles in lieu of a spoken answer. 

"Merlin," Draco mutters, deflating as soon as the man is out of earshot. He leaves it at that, certain that if he starts complaining about this establishment he'll never be able to stop. 

He turns to find Potter watching him. He's put a distance between them since the strange closeness of only moments before. His expression is a little strange, but not unhappy. 

"What?" Draco asks after another moment of being watched peculiarly. 

"Nothing." Potter huffs out a laugh. "Just. You're good at this." 

Draco swallows, momentarily blindsided by the compliment. "At what, Potter?" Draco clears his throat, fighting the flush of colour that wants to spread from his neck and trip over his cheeks. "At staring down surly barmen and remembering puerile code?" 

Potter laughs, shaking his head. "Sure. You can take it that way if you want." 

Draco looks away, moving so he only has one elbow resting on the bar. He focuses on how revolting it must be, all the grubby hands that have been here over the years and all the times it hasn't been wiped down, and not on the giddy swoop in his stomach at Potter's words. Draco's craved positive attention from him since he was eleven, yes. That doesn't mean he knows how to handle it when he gets it, though. 

In his quest to find something non-Potter to rest his gaze on, Draco makes eye-contact with the coiffed blonde across the bar. She smiles, mauve lips curling pleasantly and raises her drink in greeting. Draco is about to look away, until she pats the stool next to her, inclining her head in a clear invitation to come over. Draco smiles again, but tightly this time in polite rejection, and turns back to Potter. 

Potter raises one eyebrow, having observed the exchange. There's a smile ghosting around the corners of his lips. "Not getting in the way of something, am I?" he asks playfully.

"Hardly." Draco resists the urge to scoff, levelling Potter with a pointed look instead. "She's not exactly my type." 

Something flashes across Potter's face, another quirk of emotion Draco isn't sure how to read. He's stricken, suddenly, with the worry he's revealed too much―about himself, about his preferences. Potter's expression is once again impossible to read. 

Instinctively, Draco adds, "Don't worry, that doesn't mean you're my type either." It's far more mumbled than he meant it to sound, and a lot less like a casual remark. Draco's always been a shit liar that way. He's not sure why he felt it necessary either; Potter invaded his personal space in a big way only moments prior. Draco suspects his deeply ingrained fear of rejection is running this particular dialogue. The knee-jerk reaction to try and get in and spurn the other person, before they can politely or even rudely dismiss him, is a hard one to fight. Despite all his previous efforts, Draco finds his face is heating now, growing warmer under Potter's scrutiny. 

"That wouldn't bother me." Potter's voice is low, and even. "If I was," he adds, giving the words their due significance. 

Draco thinks his heart stops. He's worried he may have misheard, but at the same time he knows he hasn't. He just can't take it in. 

"Pardon?" he says redundantly on an embarrassingly breathy voice. In a last ditch effort to poke holes in an unexpected positive thing, Draco reasons that Potter is most likely just telling him he's also into men, or not straight at the least. It's not a come on. It's not what Draco's gut tells him, and not what the tight feeling in his chest hopes it is. 

Still. 

"It wouldn’t bother you if men were my type, or specifically if _you_ were?" 

Potter smiles at him ever so slightly, just the smallest lift of one corner of his mouth. It's such a tiny thing, a barely there movement of muscle, and yet it lifts his entire expression. He shrugs, the smile still glued gently to his lips and the corners of his eyes. They remain unerringly focussed on Draco's. 

"Either," he responds, the word hitting Draco in a rush. Potter looks Draco up and down. His gaze lingers, pointed in the way it travels from his thighs to his midriff, over the plane of his material-clad stomach and back over his chest, his neck, his lips. He feels it like it's a caress. 

"Oh," Draco manages to eloquently mutter in response. He's still mulling this revelation over, letting it seep slowly through his brain and trickle down his spine, when the barman returns. 

They both turn to look at him. 

"She'll see you," he confirms, as gruff and devoid of manners as before. "But _only_ you." He points at Harry. 

Draco blinks, then frowns. He opens his mouth to argue, but stops when he feels Potter's hand on the crook of his elbow. 

"That's fine," Potter says. He squeezes Draco's arm, once, and Draco lets a breath out through his nose. "That's fine," Potter repeats, looking at Draco. There's a question in his voice this time. 

Draco nods, although it pains him somewhat to do it. He knows Potter will be fine. He’s capable, and he’s done this on his own before, clearly, before Draco dropped him into this particular dive and managed to finagle this meeting. He’s still reluctant to see him leave. 

"I’ll be here," he says, as the baman impatiently motions Potter towards one of the velvet-curtained doors across the room. Potter nods. He lets his hand fall away from Draco’s arm, running his fingers down to Draco’s wrist as he does so. 

Draco turns his gaze back to the wood grain of the bar. 

And waits.

***

Potter is gone for over an hour. Seventy-three minutes, to be precise. Draco can’t help but count every one of them. He stares at the decrepit clock on the wall opposite, at the watch on his wrist. He fiddles with the dark leather strap of said watch, agitated and uneasy, as he nurses a cherry brandy and soda. It’s sickly sweet on his tongue and coats the back of his throat. It matches the discomfort he feels in the club. At Potter being hidden away behind moth-eaten velvet and in the company of God knows who. 

Anxiety seeps through Draco, a tangible force moving with sluggish purpose through his tight veins. 

When Potter does return, Draco feels elated, but Potter's mood is distinctly different. His face is stony as he strides away from the room the barman led him to. Draco thinks he catches a glimpse of a face behind it, someone tall, a flash of crimson silk―but the curtain is flicked shut quickly behind Potter. Potter doesn't look back, glowering ahead and making a beeline for the door. Draco quickly stands, afraid Potter is going to walk right out and leave him behind. He looks pissed off enough to do it. 

Potter throws him a look, but otherwise doesn't stop on his mission to get out of this place. 

The barman appears to be smirking at them. "Better hurry, love," the man mutters in his indecipherable accent. "Your boyfriend's in a rush, isn't he?"

Draco resists the urge to throw the contents of his glass in the man's face; he lifts it to his lips and throws the last of the vile drink back instead, then follows Potter's irate path out the door. 

The club is down a back street, away from any main roads or bustling pedestrian areas. Outside, people are sparse; there's a man smoking next to the doorway, and a couple who appear to be having a fight a little further down. One of them might be crying, their gestures turning more and more animated as their partner scowls down at the pavement, arms crossed. Looking around, Draco sees Potter pacing near the alleyway Draco was waiting at when they first arrived. 

The smoking man spits as Draco strides past him, but Draco doesn't take it personally. It appears to be more that this man is just revolting, and not that he's taken issue with Draco in particular. Small blessings, really. 

The closer Draco gets to Potter, the more he realises he doesn't know how to read this mood. Potter is pacing back and forth with short and choppy steps. He has one hand on his hip, the other over his mouth, occasionally moving it up to scrub agitatedly through his hair or to rub at his eyes behind his glasses. There's colour on his cheeks and a brightness to his eyes that Draco doesn't think he's seen on him before. Belatedly, Draco realises that Potter is not angry or pissed off. He's upset. 

Draco has no idea how to react to this. 

"Potter," he says cautiously, coming to a stop in front of him. "Potter," he repeats more forcefully when Potter doesn't appear to notice him. "Are you okay?" 

Potter stops briefly, shooting Draco the withering glance that his question rightfully deserves. Draco ploughs on regardless. 

"What happened?" 

"Nothing!" Potter stands still, but his body is still radiating a restless and unhappy energy. He lifts his hands in a helpless gesture then lets them fall back to his sides. 

"Nothing?" Draco repeats, confused. "But―"

Potter shakes his head, taking two steps back until he's standing against the brick wall of the alley. He rests against it, then lets his head fall back. He sighs, his face tilted towards the night sky. 

"Nothing, Malfoy." Potter's voice is heavy, and resigned. "She knew nothing. This was as useless as…" He breaks off and swallows thickly. Draco stares at his throat, watches his Adam's apple bob. There's a hectic colour on Potter's face, a flush coming from his chest to his neck and higher. It's the kind that happens to Draco when he's trying not to cry. Draco's chest suddenly aches. 

"This was as useless as everything else I've done. Everyone else I've spoken to," Potter says into the night air, as if Draco isn't there, or more accurately, as if Draco hearing it doesn't matter anyway. Draco isn't sure if he's flattered or bothered by this. It means he's either insignificant, or Potter's comfortable with him. _I trust you_ , Draco remembers Potter saying. He decides not to overthink things further. 

"What now?" he asks, hoping desperately it's not the wrong thing to say. 

Potter laughs, once, but it's not a happy sound. He shrugs with a loose gesture of limbs, shaking his head as he does so. "No fucking idea, Malfoy," he responds. His voice is thick with emotion. 

Potter is standing still against the wall, but there's a frenetic energy coming off him, as if he's ready to buzz out of his skin. Whatever he didn't find out from Darya the Necromancer has obviously deeply affected him. Left to his own devices, Draco suspects Potter might just remain here, leant against grimy bricks in an even grimier alleyway in Prague and staring disconsolately up at the dark sky. Draco doesn't want that. He wants to keep him a little longer. 

"Drink?" Draco suggests. He steps closer, just as Potter tilts his face down. His eyes are a little glassy, from either unshed tears or the hot, pent-up flush of anxiety. Draco can't tell. He's momentarily rendered mute by the startling colour of those eyes, their intensity. Even behind glasses, they are still the most striking green he's ever seen a human possess, clear irises all the way to the pupil, almost devoid of flecks of brown except right around that darkest centre. Green, upon green upon green―teal and emerald and soft gemstone jade. Potter's eyes are stunning. The expression in them is unreadable. 

"A drink," Potter repeats, holding Draco's gaze with those inscrutable eyes. 

"Yes." Draco dares to step closer still. "Drink with me, Harry?" They're close enough now to share a breath. 

"Yeah." Potter nods, then licks his lips. Draco follows the movement with his eyes. "Let's get fucked up."

***

Getting _fucked up_ is not exactly what Draco had in mind when he suggested a drink, but Potter appears to have taken to the idea with both hands. Or at least, with a drink in both hands, as it were. 

Potter chooses the club, and Draco doesn't argue. There's a fever bubbling beneath Potter's skin, Draco can tell. He's been in Potter’s shoes before, when the sudden feeling of the rug being swept out from under previously sturdy and hopeful feet, leaves one reeling. At least he thinks this is how Potter is feeling. Potter hasn't divulged what happened, or what _didn't_ happen to be precise, and Draco decided not to punctuate the silence in which they walked to the club with his questions. They bubble inside him, just under the surface, alongside the intermittent kicks of lust that spike every time the back of Potter's hand brushes against Draco's fingers. 

Draco is both aware of what is likely to happen between them from here, and unable to comprehend it at the same time. There's no need for Potter to touch him. No need for them to walk so close together, for Potter to lean against him as they wait for traffic lights to turn green. Potter's warmth bleeds into Draco through the layers of their clothes. He runs cold these days, now that the blood of strangers fuels him as well as his own. Draco feels Potter's heat down to his core. 

Potter takes them past Old Town, to a club Draco has avoided going to before. The line is surprisingly short, and the bouncer waves them through with friendly disinterest. It's starkly different to the place they've just visited, larger and more recently furnished. It's packed, the dirty thump of the music winding its way up Draco's soles and sinuously rattling his bones. The press of people around them is immediate, shirtless men and bright-eyed youths, high-heeled queens and steel-capped kings holding court on the dancefloor and amidst the throngs of glistening drinkers at the bars. 

It's a gay club, but that's of course not why Draco has avoided it before tonight. Its size, its popularity, the fact that it is entirely Muggle―this is what has kept Draco at bay. It's hot in here, and overwhelming. So many people, alive and vibrant and pumping vivacious blood through glorious veins riddled with chemical substance. Draco has to shut his eyes, fingers holding onto the back of Potter's open plaid shirt so as not to lose him in the crowd. It's too much, the feeling of being a shark amongst tender shoals, a wolf in a field of lambs.

Draco's gums ache, his teeth itching to descend. He's fed two days ago, more than enough to keep him flush and well. He doesn't need a single drop of blood from any person here, and he knows it. His _body_ knows it, the parasitic force that transformed him three years ago is more than fucking aware that it has been sated. He wants it, though. 

He tightens his fingers in the back of Potter's shirt, letting himself be led towards a neon-lit bar. 

He's distracted when Potter asks what he wants, and makes a vague gesture with his free hand indicating he'll drink anything. He's too focussed on keeping his instincts in check to really concentrate on an order right now. His hand is still pressed to the small of Potter's back. He's focussed on that, too. 

When they leave the bar and find a somewhat secluded corner―at least as secluded as this club is capable of―Draco all but sags against the wall. He sips at the drink Potter procured him, eyes closed. It's some kind of sour beer, Draco thinks, a lambic or geuze. It's not what he would have ever ordered for himself, but the surprise and tang of it is a welcome shock to his system. He needs to get a grip, get himself back under control. A room full of warm bodies can’t affect him this much. He won’t allow it. 

While Draco sips at his beer, Potter downs his, as well as the whiskey chaser he bought for himself. He disappears shortly after, heading back for another round which Draco politely declines. He nurses his drink, letting it cool his already cool hand and slowly bringing himself back down from the edge. It's not often he feels so strung out, so close to the creature within him running the show. He never lets it; he's the epitome of self-control, and that's not a simple brag. He knows what he is now, but he refuses to be ruled by it. 

He never wants to be responsible for another death, for another person's suffering, ever again in his life. Witnessing it, being the indirect cause of it through his desperate yet despicable actions, was enough. 

By the time Potter has returned, Draco feels composed and more like himself once more. Potter stands next to Draco, their shoulders bumping as Potter leans heavily against the wall. He's holding another drink, whiskey again by the looks of it, over large blocky ice cubes. The lights of the club glisten over the amber liquid and the clear ice, infusing them with shifting colours. Potter's hand looks steady as he raises the glass to his lips, but there's a flush on his cheeks now and a glassiness to his eyes that implies his fast drinking is taking effect. His body seems more relaxed, even if his mind is still whirring. 

Potter catches Draco staring, and Draco holds his gaze for a long moment. He turns so they're no longer side by side against the dark wall, but he makes sure they're still no less close. The movement brings him into Potter's space. It's no accident. 

"So," Draco starts, voice low but loud enough to be heard. Potter leans closer anyway, almost swaying into Draco as if pulled into his orbit. Draco feels their inevitable crash together growing even more imminent. "Are you planning to tell me what upset you back there?"

Potter smiles ever so slightly. He moves to mirror Draco's posture, turning until they're both facing each other. The movement is languid. Around them, the club churns. People talk, drink, dance. Draco is barely aware of them, pulled into the vortex of Potter's intense gaze.

Potter licks his lips. He cups the hand holding his drink against his chest, still smiling that crooked and barely-there smile. "Dance with me first?" 

Draco laughs once, soft and startled. "Dance with you?" 

"Yeah, Malfoy." Potter moves his hand until the back of his knuckles barely graze Draco's chest. "Draco. We should dance." 

Draco takes a moment to consider. Potter's hand is warm against Draco's chest through his t-shirt. There's desire in his eyes and colour on his cheeks. He's exactly as alluring to Draco as he ever was, the boy who rejected his friendship, the teenager who constantly challenged him, the hero who saved his skin from ravenous Fiendfyre. And now, this man standing in front of Draco, shrouded in secrecy and hiding from the world but offering something of himself to Draco, and only to him―his company, his interest, a glimpse into his secluded world. If this is it for them, the only night they spend together before Potter disappears once more, then Draco wants this. He can be whatever Potter needs tonight; he's glad to be. It's more than Draco ever thought he would get, more than he’d dared dream of. He'll take it in both hands, and with the surests of grips.

Slowly, but clearly Draco nods. The smile that spreads across Potter's face is wide and beatific. He takes the half-drunk beer from Draco's hand and sets it on the tall table nearby. Potter sets his own glass next to it. He runs his free hand down the side of Draco's jacket, then grips it in a loose fist. He pulls Draco closer, inch by slow inch, turning away just as their bodies meet. 

Draco lets himself be led to the crowded dance floor.

***

Draco doesn't dance, but this is not dancing. 

This a press of bodies, overheated skin under too many layers, music and light and excitement and _toomuch_ all at once. 

It's clear Potter is no stranger to places like this, to the dirty grind of a hookup. The crowd around them is thick and in constant motion, pushing them close together. Draco’s jacket is too hot. The sweat makes his thin t-shirt cling to his skin. Potter’s hands feel like brands on his hips. Draco curves his own around the back of Potter’s neck. 

When Potter kisses him, it isn't surprising, but it is electrifying. Potter’s mouth is soft, gentle presses of his lips against Draco’s. It’s been so long since Draco’s kissed someone. It’s dizzying, intoxicating. Draco winds his fingers into the soft curls at the nape of Potter’s neck, feels the sweat-dampened tangle of them. He almost isn’t sure how to react, how to lead this dance. He isn't sure he has to, though. He thinks he can let go here, let Potter run the show. Potter's skin is still feverishly hot, a mania lying just under the surface. Draco wonders for one mad moment if Potter is thinking the same thing that Draco had earlier—that this could very likely be the last night they see each other. Draco wonders if he's kidding himself that this could mean as much to Potter— _Harry_ ―as it does to him, but then again, Potter's kisses are hot, deep and real. His hands clutch at Draco's hips, bringing him closer, and Draco shamelessly sighs into it. He's past caring. It's too loud in here, anyway; no one can hear him, and if they did, Draco doesn't think they'd bat an eyelid. They hardly stand out here. There are a myriad of lustful couples scattering the dancefloor, the corners of the room. It's glorious. Draco loves blending in, being an anonymous part of a crowd. It's a novel feeling these days.

And it's been _so_ fucking long since he's kissed someone. 

Songs bleed into each other, one to the next, and Draco sways with the beat and the rhythm of Potter's lips. Potter's kisses turn deeper, more insistent, and Draco rolls with it. They're barely dancing now, just moving in a hypnotic and dirty grind against each other. Draco can feel his cock stirring, another borderline novel feeling if he's frank. Not that sex is overly different for him now that he's less than human, or any less desirable. It's just been rather infrequent. 

Potter's hands snake up the back of his top, under his desperately too-hot jacket to touch equally warm skin, and Draco suppressed a shiver. Potter's thigh presses against Draco's thickening cock and his kisses falter as he breathes out a groan. Draco feels the vibrations of it across his lips, through the fingers he has spread over Potter's neck. Their rhythm doesn't falter, settling into a deeper grind. Potter's fingers press against the small of Draco's back as their hips roll against each other to the pounding bass of the music. 

Potter makes another sound that Draco feels rumble over his lips rather than hears, before he's pulling Draco away to the side. Draco dizzily rubs the back of his hand over his mouth and once more lets himself be led. It's an exhilarating feeling. 

He thinks Potter is leading them back to their previous secluded corner, but Potter takes them past it. Understanding blossoms in Draco's mind as they arrive at the men's bathrooms. Draco gapes for a moment at the implication of it. Not that he's surprised for himself—he's gotten off in a grubby loo before and felt no shame―but _Potter_? Draco struggles with that for another moment, as well as how arousing he finds it. It makes Potter no less saintly or heroic in his mind, rather renders him worryingly even more attractive. 

Potter stops in front of a blessedly free cubicle, turning to face Draco. "Is this okay?" he asks, inclining his head towards the open cubicle door. There's a bloke nearby who gives them a vaguely interested up and down. He'll assume they're planning to do lines, or do each other, neither of which seem to be a surprising occurrence here. 

Draco nods, quick and self-assured, as he pushes Potter the rest of the way in and locks the door behind them. Potter's smile is vibrant and giddy before he's on Draco, kissing him with renewed verve. Draco feels giddy himself, letting his hands roam under Potter's top and over his skin now that they have a semblance of privacy. They don't, not really; they're still in public. It's quieter in here, though. Draco can hear the gasps Potter makes when Draco presses his thigh against his groin, can catch the hitch of his breaths when Draco sucks on his lower lip. 

They haven't got long before they'll be kicked out when some poor bastard is desperate for a wee, or if security comes in looking for too many feet under cubicle doors. As if thinking the same thing, Potter asks, "What do you want?" He kisses down Draco's neck while he waits for a reply. 

"I want." Draco hums, closing his eyes as Potter kisses over the dip of his throat. His cock is aching, trapped in his jeans. "I want whatever you want to do," he answers honestly. He'd be embarrassed about how easy he's being, but he can find it in himself―especially not when Potter is being even easier, dropping to his knees in front of Draco. 

Potter rucks up Draco's top slightly, then kisses him low on his stomach. His hair tickles at Draco's belly as he nods, belatedly agreeing with Draco's statement as if dropping to the floor wasn't a clear enough statement of intentions. "I want to do this," he states breathlessly, fingers at the fly of Draco's jeans. "Good?" 

Draco stares down at him, chest heaving. His mind feels vaguely blank again, the euphoria of getting too much of a good thing, too much of what he wants, making his thoughts slow and syrupy. "Yeah," he croaks in response, threading the fingers of one hand through Potter's endlessly tangled hair. It's so much softer than he expected, than he thought it would be. And he _has_ thought about it. Draco suppresses a moan at the feel of it through his fingers. 

He fails to suppress his sound when Potter makes short work of undoing his jeans and pulling them open. Having been given permission Potter shows no hesitation. He kisses the lowest part of Draco's belly once, open-mouthed and sweet, then looks up at Draco as he mouths over Draco's cloth-covered cock. He's not hard, but he starts filling out quickly at the soft, warm press of Potter's mouth, at the dampness his tongue leaves as Potter presses it against the black material of Draco's boxer briefs. Draco feels almost dizzy with anticipation as he looks down at him.

The rush of air against bare skin as Potter peels his pants down is jarring, but brief, as Potter leans in quickly. Draco twitches at the first feel of Potter's lips on his semi-hard cock, already overstimulated and edgy. It's a wonderful feeling, so much pent-up arousal filling every vein. When Potter mouths at the head of his cock, hot tongue pressing against Draco's burning skin, Draco's mouth drops open. His head falls back against the dark grey cubicle wall with a thud. 

Potter sucks cock like he loves it. Draco doesn't mind it himself. It's fun, it's good, it's hot. But it's not at the top of his list of things to do with someone else, unless the mood particularly strikes him. It’s never something he’s desperate to give. Potter sucks cock like he’s _hungry_ for it, like he’s done this a hundred times and is grateful to be doing it again. His hands grip at Draco’s hips as he swallows him down enthusiastically, bobbing his head in increasing fast movements. He doesn’t take Draco down fully, but it’s close, and it’s _perfect_. Draco lifts his own head away from the wall to stare down at Potter, at the stretch of his mouth around Draco’s girth, at the gentle crease between his brows as he concentrates on taking Draco down. The suction of his mouth as he pulls back to suckle at the head is mindblowing, and Draco’s mouth drops open once more on a silent groan. His breath hitches as Harry swirls his tongue around the slit of Draco’s cock, then runs it along the underside of the head. Draco’s thighs are starting to tremble. 

The sounds of the club two doors away feel like a surreal backdrop to the building pleasure in Draco’s gut. His breathing grows faster still as Potter shuffles forward, taking Draco down so deep that his nose almost brushes Draco’s pubic hair. His fingers claw at the open waist of Draco’s jeans, pulling on the tight denim. Draco fights to keep his own fingers loose in Potter’s hair, not to pull him down on his cock, not to pull at all. It’s bad form, for one thing, to choke someone on one’s cock. Terribly impolite. More than that, though, Draco finds nothing in this world more gratifying than withstanding his most base of desires, controlling exactly how much and when he will submit to them. He knows it comes from the part of him that is still terrified of the fangs that sprout from his mouth, from those moments when he stares at a bare throat or the blue veins revealed by the tilt of an elegant wrist. Even now, his mouth is watering in a way that goes beyond sexual desire―his gums ache, his jaw feels loose. There’s the stirring of _something_ in his gut that isn’t related to his cock, that comes from a hunger more primal, and infinitely more deadly. The blood that pumps in his veins is flush with dark particles, whatever it is that makes a vampire tick and keeps him hungry for human blood. Draco won’t give in to that. Of all the things in this world, this he can say with complete confidence and conviction. 

And when it comes to sex, nothing thrills him more than putting that control into practice, in refusing to give in to what the creature in him wants versus what the man in him will allow. It’s a powerful, powerful rush. 

Draco sucks his lower lip into his mouth, his entire body taut with tension as Potter ups the ante even further, using his hands to set up a slow thrusting motion with Draco’s hips. It takes Draco a moment to realise what Potter wants, and even when he does he keeps his movements shallow. It’s beyond arousing, looking down at Potter’s lips stretched wide as he holds his head still for Draco to fuck into his mouth. Draco feels his balls tightening, the muscles in his thighs straining as his orgasm grows close. His breathing is hectic, as is Potter’s as he draws in air through his nose, his brow creased in a deep frown and a solid flush spreading over his cheekbones and down onto the apples of his cheeks. His lips are the colour of a deep, red bruise. 

Potter groans, deep and throaty, when Draco slightly tightens his fingers in Potter’s hair, and Draco loses it. He lets out a low and almost silent moan as he spills into Potter’s mouth, feels Potter swallow frantically around him. Potter breathes out through his nose in desperate puffs but doesn’t move away. He stays until Draco has finished, sucking him down and breathing heavily, until Draco has to pull him away from his twitching cock. Draco's entire body is on edge from the aftershocks, small jolts of pleasure still coursing through him. Potter kisses the base of Draco’s softening cock, then at his belly. He’s breathing hard, letting out soft moans on every other exhale and Draco slowly sees, through the fading fog of orgasm, that Potter’s hand is moving between his legs. He pulls himself off in quick, fast motions, with the kind of efficiency that comes with being right on the edge. He can’t pull his eyes away from Potter’s hand, the way it fits between his spread legs. He can see the glistening, flushed tip of Potter’s cock in quick glimpses when Potter’s hand moves just so, and Draco cards his fingers through Potter’s hair, stroking him gently. 

On a hunch, Draco tightens both hands again, just the slightest increase of pressure, and hears Potter let out a high and needy gasp. His breathing is erratic and frantic as he presses his face into Draco’s belly, his free hand still hanging onto the open waist of Draco’s jeans as if for dear life. Dracp does it again, alternating between gentle strokes and tight pulls, following the hitches of Potter’s breath as he does. Potter’s entire body feels tense, his muscles straining towards release, and he lets out a deep and guttural groan as he rises up onto his knees. The sound is buried against Draco’s belly as Potter comes, his breathing hot and damp against Draco’s bare skin. Draco spreads his fingers through Potter’s hair, soothing and calming, as Potter comes down from the high of orgasm. It’s a full minute of Potter’s laboured breathing, the slow tremble of aftershocks running over his shoulders, before Draco hears Potter mutter a quiet spell. The zing of the Cleaning Charm running over his lower half is startling and unexpected, as is the realisation Potter has cast this wandlessly. Potter mutters the same spell again for himself, for the mess over his own hand and groin, before he looks up at Draco. He slowly moves both hands to tuck Draco’s soft cock away, to do the button and fly of his jeans back up again. It’s so surprisingly intimate, being put back together when Potter just recently took him apart, that Draco finds it hard to breath. He keeps his hands in Potter’s hair, holds his eye contact as Potter finishes. He eventually stands with a shaky motion, coming face to face with Draco. 

Contrary to their prior kiss in the heave of the club, when Potter presses his lips to Draco’s this time it _does_ feel unexpected. Potter is tentative, slow, feeling Draco out and Draco responds in kind. Their lips move against each other in soft motions, the kiss deepening but never growing any faster. Draco feels overwhelmed by it, by all of it. It’s too much. It’s perfect. 

His hands slip down to Potter’s neck to cup his jaw and tilt his head the way he wants. Potter lets himself be led, kissing Draco for a long and tender moment before eventually they both let the kiss taper out. The sounds of the bathroom around them, of the chatter of people outside and occasional bursts of raucous laughter, the conversations happening in a language Draco doesn’t speak, slowly filters back into his awareness. The music is still the same thump of bass, the interminable heartbeat of the dancefloor. In front of him, Potter’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his cheeks still flush with blood and his lips that perfect bruised colour. His hair is a tangled mess from Draco’s wandering fingers. Draco can’t define the emotion that surges inside him at the sight, the feeling that swells as he looks at Potter’s face. He can’t deny it either, though. 

"Let's get some fresh air," Potter suggests in a rough voice, and Draco nods, kissing his flushed and full lips one last time before they leave.

***

"Do you know what a Horcrux is?" 

The night air is crisp and their footfalls are one of the few sounds punctuating the quiet night before Potter speaks. They’ve been walking for nearly an hour, letting excitement and booze settle in their stomachs, letting the very early morning chill soothe them. At least, Draco is. Potter looks like he’s deflating somewhat, but not necessarily in a bad way. The surge of the adrenaline that comes from bad news, and a good fuck, often leaves one feeling muted in the aftermath. 

The river winds slowly beside them as they share a cigarette. Potter’s free hand is in his pocket, his hair falling over his eyes and over the dark frame of his glasses. 

Draco frowns as he thinks. He feels wrongfooted and suddenly alert. The question was powerfully abrupt. 

"In the most basic sense," he eventually responds. "I understand it is the splitting of one’s soul through the act of murder. He-Who… _Voldemort_ ," Draco corrects himself, forcing himself to say the name. He clears his throat, shooting Potter a quick look before he continues. Potter is staring straight ahead, the cherry of the cigarette flaring to life as he takes a drag. "I know Voldemort made one."

Potter nods, leading them towards what appears to be large public gardens. He hands Draco the cigarette, putting both hands up against the closed entry gate. It’s locked, as, of course, it would be at this hour of night. Potter moves his hands over the gate, feeling it out. "More than one," he says abruptly. It takes Draco a moment to reconnect his focus back to their conversation. 

"No," Draco replies, frown deepening. "That’s not possible…" He trails off uncertainly. 

"It’s true." Potter steps back, appraising the fence as if he intends to scale it. "He made several. Innocuous objects, or meaningful ones. Some significant only to him. The diary your father gave to Ginny Weasley was one." Potter turns to look at Draco. The glare of a nearby streetlamp reflects off his glasses, obscuring the expression in his eyes from Draco’s view. In contrast, Draco suspects his own face is plain to read. He feels blindsided by this information. 

"Riddle’s diary?" he mutters, almost too shocked for words. 

Potter continues to stare at him inscrutably for another long moment before he turns away. He nods, pushing his glasses further up his nose with one finger. "You didn’t know," he says definitively. It’s a statement not a question. 

Draco shakes his head, still trying to digest this information. "I doubt my father did, either," he says honestly. His opinion of his father is presently lower than dirt, and he’s certain the diary was deliberately given to the Weaselette, but still. Draco doesn’t think his father knew about what it really was. 

Potter nods as if in agreement. "You’re probably right. I don’t think many people know what Voldemort had done. I doubt he trusted many with that secret." Potter pulls out his wand, having wisely decided not to bother with jumping the fence, and mutters an _Alohomora_. It opens with a quiet _click_ of metal locks turning. Potter pushes it open and walks through. 

Draco follows Potter into the park. It’s instantly colder inside. 

"He made seven," Potter says after a short while of walking together through the park. He tucks his hands in his jeans' pockets. "Six on purpose, and one unintentionally." His voice is matter-of-fact and bland. 

Draco has the most sickening feeling in his gut. "What does that mean?" 

Potter sniffs. "It means making the first six fucked him up so badly that by the time he tried to off me, his soul was…" Potter shrugs. "Unstable. Broken. Crumbling away. Fuck knows, really." Potter folds his arms across his chest, then looks down. "People aren’t supposed to make Horcruxes. Souls aren’t supposed to be split," he says to the ground. His voice sounds hollow. 

"Yes." Draco looks up at the night stars, at the shadowy spires of the towers visible over the treetops, that are so present in the city’s architecture. "It’s vile magic," Draco agrees. 

He doesn’t know much about Horcruxes, really, only the basics, uncovered from the darkest tomes in his father’s private library. There was no mention of there being more than one, though, or what they were. Draco feels deep apprehension at the idea of Voldemort having split his soul so many times—even more so the implication that he made one unintentionally. He listens intently to Potter’s every, quiet word. 

"When Voldemort tried to kill me the first time," Potter says, in that same hollow tone, "and my mother saved me, the Killing Curse backfired on him. You know that part. He didn’t die, as you also know. What no one realised, not even him for the longest time, was that in the process, when he was blasted apart, a shard of his shattered soul… found something in the room to make a Horcrux out of." Potter stares forward, his mouth twisting in deep distaste. "Like some kind of leech, looking for a host." Potter steers them towards a wooden park bench, just to the side of the gravel path. There’s a statue across from them in an open area of the park, set with a carefully designed garden bed. The plants look lush and healthy. 

"Something in the room," Draco repeats, searching Potter’s expression for an answer. He already knows what Potter means, though, what he must be referring to given the context. "You," he deduces, almost hesitant to say it out loud. Potter’s expression tells him he’s correct. 

"You’re quick," he says, with a small and achingly sad smile. "Yep," he confirms. "Me." He sighs, low and heavy. "It was there since the beginning. Some… bit of him." Potter looks revolted, and beyond that, almost despondent. He sniffs again, then looks back towards the statue. "It’s gone now," he states. "Out of me. They’re all gone, destroyed." Potter runs his hand over his mouth, leaves his cupped palm half covering his lips. "I saw it die," he says quietly. "And him." He breathes in deeply, then leans back against the park bench. "And we thought that would be it."

Draco’s quiet for a long moment while he gathers his thoughts. There’s so much to take in, to unpack here, that he feels almost numbed by it. None of this makes sense in regards to what he previously understood as possible. He focuses on the words being exchanged at hand, and not on the broader questions building inside him.

"But," Potter says wryly, "it hasn’t been." 

When Potter doesn’t elaborate, Draco prompts, "What is it, Harry?" He keeps his voice gentle. 

Potter takes a moment before he speaks. "No one has ever been a living Horcrux before," he says, his face still tilted up now to look at the stars. "At least, no one who survived to talk about it. It’s done… it’s done something to me." Potter sucks on his lower lip. His eyes are bright. "It took us a while to notice, or to make the connection, really. The people around me, who I was close to, started having these dreams." Potter shakes his head as if bewildered. "Something in the room with them. Watching them. At first we thought it was the war, the aftermath. Ron and Hermione and Ginny lost people, everyone did. It made sense they would have nightmares." Potter shrugs. "But they kept happening. Scared the crap out of them when they realised they were all having the _same_ nightmare." Potter laughs, wry and a little helpless. "And for once, I wasn’t having them. Not once." He rubs his hand over his mouth again. 

"Hermione figured it out, that it was coming from me. She’s so brilliant." Potter’s voice is reverent, melancholy. Draco thinks the _I miss her_ goes unsaid. His mind is whirring, the cogs in his head spinning faster than he can keep up with. He thinks he’s just now fathoming the true depths of Potter’s loneliness. A vision of the figure in his room each night flashes into his mind, unbidden. He blinks, still not ready to put a name to what he now knows it must be. "We thought we could find out what it meant together. We used to do that, she and Ron and I." Potter trails off. Draco doesn’t want to ask, to point out that Potter is here alone, that he’s searching without his friends. It feels too harsh right now to state the obvious. There must be a reason for it, and Draco is certain it will be nothing good. 

Potter blinks several times as if composing himself. He looks like he is struggling with what he is about to say. 

"And then Teddy started having night terrors. That something was in his room at night, trying to get him. That he couldn’t move." Potter lets out a shaky breath. "So I left. To try and figure it out on my own, so that no one." He shakes his head. "No one gets hurt in the interim," he finishes grimly. 

Draco’s left hand is on his knee. He tightens his fingers on the denim of his jeans, lets his short nails scratch against it. He wants to touch Potter, to offer some comfort. No gesture seems fitting, though, and while the intimacy built from their prior tryst in the club has not dissipated, the mood has so utterly shifted now. "And you’ve been doing that since?" Draco says, his voice rough. 

Potter nods. "Trying to. The problem is no one understands what’s going on with me. People aren’t Horcruxes. People don’t host… fragments of Dark souls for most of their lives." Potter spreads his hands, another helpless gesture. "There’s scant, if any, information on what the fuck I’m _doing_ to people. The best bet that anyone has come up with is that the space where the, the"—Potter gestures vaguely at his own chest—"where the Horcrux was, that it carved away a piece of my _own_ soul in order to reside there with it. And that space is now vacant. It’s searching for something… to fill it, the hollow there. It’s fractured." Potter swallows thickly, blinking rapidly as his eyes become bright. "Like his was," he croaks. He sniffs, and wipes at his cheek. "But it’s not like with him. I don’t know what it wants, what it’s looking for from people. I don’t why I’m doing it," Potter says, deeply distressed. "And I’ve read so much. So many cultures have creatures like this, myths about―" Potter looks at Draco his voice sounds rough, and thick. "About beings that feed on souls," he says. Potter’s voice has grown so soft, a barely there croak. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that _that’s_ what this is. What it’s trying to get from people, and that it eventually will hurt someone." Potter swallows, visibly upset. "If I haven’t already. No one has been a Horcrux and survived before," Potter repeats. It’s the same sentence he uttered before. Potter sounds almost broken repeating it now. 

Draco can barely breathe. He sits perfectly still, mute in shock. _You haven’t hurt anyone _he wants to say. _You would know if you had hurt someone, **you** would know. _It would be meaningless, though, coming from someone who is only minutes into learning this information. The nightly visions in his room come to Draco’s mind again, the figure watching him, the way he can barely move when it’s present. He's so certain that nothing from Potter is dangerous, but he keeps this to himself. He has no real basis for this certainty, after all. Draco could be sitting right in the lion’s jaws, and have no concept of the danger he’s in.____

____Still. He _is_ certain of it. _ _ _ _

____"Christ, Potter," Draco says with feeling, after a long moment of mulling this over. He lets his breath out in a whistle between his teeth. "Fuck me." He’s still too shocked, really, too deep in processing mode to say anything more articulate. He leans back against the park bench, rests his arm across it and then his head on his hand._ _ _ _

____Potter laughs, a startled burst of sound. "That's not how I expected you to react." He wipes at his cheek again, then under his eye. He pretends he’s adjusting his glasses, but Draco sees the wetness on his fingers. He doesn’t mention it._ _ _ _

____"Ah," he says instead. "I can give it a moment, and then try again?"_ _ _ _

____Potter shakes his head, running a rough hand through his hair. "You’re taking this awfully well, is all."_ _ _ _

____Draco allows himself a small smile. He makes sure it’s not unkind. "I’m the last person to judge you for this, Harry." He waits until Potter is looking at him, then taps his teeth, slowly, with his index finger to make sure his point is clear. "You’re worried part of you wants to feed on people. I _know_ that part of me wants to," he says, opting to be as blunt as necessary. His voice is gentle though. "You’ll find no condemnation from me." _ _ _ _

____"It’s not the same," Potter says on a breath. He sounds almost desperate, all humour evaporating. "You can control that. You can―" He swallows._ _ _ _

____"Maybe you can, too," Draco says, but before he’s finished Potter is already shaking his head vehemently._ _ _ _

____"I don’t even know when I’m doing it. When I’m… when it’s visiting someone. How can I control that?"_ _ _ _

____Draco is silent for a long moment. He looks down at his shoes. They’re polished patent leather, shiny and new, and a deep mauve in shade. The light from the nearby streetlamps peppering the quiet park catches on them. "I’ve dreamt of you," Draco says._ _ _ _

____It’s sooner than he intended, but it needs to be said. Best rip the plaster off. He can’t quite look at Potter’s face yet, though. He feels like he is delivering the most devastating news. He takes a deep breath, and forces himself to look up._ _ _ _

____"What?" Potter asks. He looks stricken, confused. Draco swallows._ _ _ _

____"Of something in my room. A figure that watches me in the dark. It comes close sometimes, and other times it hides in corners. It’s always difficult to see, to make out properly. I know it’s a figure. I feel full of weight when it’s there, as if it’s hard to move." Draco licks his lips. "It doesn’t feel real, mostly. But I don’t dream, and haven’t for a long time. I barely need to sleep, and so. This is real."_ _ _ _

____"Fuck," Potter says, with deep feeling. He looks away, shocked, and then shuts his eyes. He rubs his hand over his mouth and then looks back. "Have you." He stops, then tries again. "When?"_ _ _ _

____"Every day since we first spoke."_ _ _ _

____" _Fuck_!" Potter repeats, even louder. "Shit. I need to leave. I need to, I’m not safe for you―" _ _ _ _

____"Don’t be stupid," Draco says quietly, but decisively. "You can’t hurt me."_ _ _ _

____"What?" Potter sounds incredulous. "Have you listened to _anything_ I’ve just said?" _ _ _ _

____"Yes." Draco sits up straighter then leans closer. "All of it. And I stand by what _I’ve_ just said." Potter shakes his head miserably, but before he can vocally object, Draco speaks again. "Do you understand what I am, Harry? And I mean properly understand."_ _ _ _

____Potter halts his movement, surprised. His frown deepens. "I―yes. I do." He licks his lips as he gives it another moment’s more considered thought. He searches Draco’s face. "I think I do," he settles on._ _ _ _

____"Good." Draco moves the hand that’s slung over the back of the bench to touch the collar of Potter’s open, plaid shirt. It’s blue and soft. He’s touching it to comfort Potter as much as calm himself. He deeply dislikes talking about this, but it is necessary. "Good enough, anyway," Draco says wryly. "I’m no expert on vampire magic, myself, if I’m completely honest," Draco admits. "What I do know is what I’ve learned from hanging out with other creatures, and the occasional conversation with another vampire when we can stand to be near each other." Draco feels the corners of his mouth turn down. "Which is rarely ever. The rest of my knowledge comes from the scant books there are on vampires. Most of them are completely full of shit, as it happens."_ _ _ _

____Draco glances up at Potter, who seems to be hanging on his every word. "Garlic? It does nothing," Draco continues. "My reflection is present in all mirrors, glass or otherwise. A stake through the heart will kill me, the same way it would kill any creature that relies on a pulse to keep bumping around. There’s so much shit out there about us." He shakes his head. His fingers are still loosely gripping Potter’s collar. "The biggest misconception out there, and which I know for a fact to be untrue, is that we are insatiable." Draco looks Potter in the eye. "That we guzzle blood with no capacity for self-control. It may feel like this at times, I won’t deny it. But I am not a beast. I refuse to be. My hunger is not fathomless, because I will not let it be. I take blood when I need to, and from those who can give it, and I am satisfied. Sometimes I want more"—Draco shrugs—"the same way everyone wants more of a good thing, wants more pleasure. But it doesn't mean I have to, and it doesn’t mean I am not in control of that need." Draco takes a steadying breath. "But I am still not human. For all I may bleat about how civilised a vampire I am, I _am_ one all the same. I died, I came back. And I was changed irreparably in the process." Draco extends his index finger to run along the side of Potter’s neck. Potter tilts ever so slightly into the touch._ _ _ _

____"I am not even certain I have a soul anymore," Draco whispers, giving voice to something that has long plagued him. "At least not the same kind I had once. A human soul. Perhaps that’s why we feed on human blood. To fill that void we have now, to take a bit of the truly living to keep our bodies pumping." Draco shrugs, smiling a little ruefully._ _ _ _

____Potter takes a shaky breath. "What’re you saying?"_ _ _ _

____Draco cups the back of Potter’s neck loosely. "I’m saying that if this part of you that stalks dreams is searching for… something to fill it. Something to feed on. Then it can try with me, but I am not sure it will get very far." He taps his chest, just above his heart. "If it’s hungry to fill what it’s lost, then I don’t think I have what it’s looking for in that regard."_ _ _ _

____Potter’s brows crease into a frown. His expression is despairing, as if he doesn’t believe a word of this can be true. He’s still listening though, some part of him perhaps equally as desperate to believe it. "You can’t know that, though. You can’t know any of this."_ _ _ _

____"No," Draco agrees, still gently. "You’re right, there. This could be blind confidence in my own nature which is utterly misplaced. I still don’t think you will take anything from me, though. Potter. I’m not human," he reiterates, in a soft whisper. He leans closer. There's no one around them at all, but the words he’s speaking feel intimate, in need of being protected from anyone but the two of them. "I’m easily as Dark as this part of you could ever be. I can match its hunger." Draco smiles. "And I still don't think you will hurt me. This part of you… it’s still _you_. And you don’t want to hurt me, Harry," he says. He moves one hand to cup Harry’s cheek, to stroke his thumb gently over the scratchy stubble and soft skin there. _ _ _ _

____Potter looks like he wants to protest, but at the same time he looks deeply exhausted. There's deep purple under his heavy-lidded eyes. Draco strokes his thumb over Potter’s cheek once more, revelling in the way Potter presses into it like a needy cat. He wants to kiss him again, to brush Potter’s hair away from his forehead. He’s close to doing it, on the precipice of pressing his lips to Potter’s, when he feels a tell-tale pain behind his eyes. He’s so caught up in the moment, in the look in Potter’s eyes, that it takes him a minute to recognise it for what it is. When he does he closes his eyes, sighing. It sounds sad even to his own ears._ _ _ _

____"I need to go," he mutters. He keeps his hand where it is._ _ _ _

____Potter blinks at him dazedly. "What?"_ _ _ _

____Draco gestures towards the sky. It’s lightened already, just the barest amount. Dawn is approaching on slow legs, but she’s approaching all the same. "Sunrise," he says by way of simple explanation. "I’ve got enough time to get home, but I need to leave now."_ _ _ _

____"Can I come with you?" Potter asks on a hushed breath. He looks as surprised as Draco feels by the sudden request, but not as though he wants to take it back._ _ _ _

____Draco’s never had someone with him during the day. He’s vulnerable during that time, and more than that, he’s never wanted someone with him, really. He’s been lonely, yes, but at the same time, there has never been someone he’s wanted to spend a night and then the following day with, too._ _ _ _

____He searches Potter’s expression, but all he sees there is… Potter. He looks tired, and sad, but hopeful too. He looks like the boy Draco remembers from the war, whose shoulders were so weighed down with life, but who was determined to keep going anyway._ _ _ _

____"You’ll have to keep the blinds shut," Draco says as he stands. He offers his hand to Potter to help him stand. Potter nods, and takes it without hesitation._ _ _ _

____He stands close by Draco for the entire walk home._ _ _ _

______ _ _

***

They arrive at Draco’s flat well before sunrise, thankfully. 

Potter looks utterly dead on his feet. Exhaustion radiates from him, the kind of bone-deep weariness that Draco isn’t used to feeling physically anymore. He still feels it mentally, though. 

"The bathroom is through there," Draco says once he’s taken Potter upstairs. This flat is small, just one floor that Draco has rented. It has everything he needs. He isn’t such a fan of opulence these days as he once was in his youth. "If you’d like to shower?" Draco offers. 

Potter nods, letting Draco lead the way. He takes the towels Draco gives him, shrugging off his outer layers. He hasn’t spoken much since they left the park. Draco feels almost reluctant to leave him after the conversation they’ve had and the experiences they’ve shared. He forces himself to exit the room and leave Potter to himself. 

Draco busies himself with finding clothes for Potter to wear, a spare set of soft pyjama bottoms and a plain black vest. He estimates they are a similar size. He adds a pair of thick, soft socks to the pile, and then feels mildly ridiculous for doing it. He leaves them there all the same; Draco hates sleeping with bare feet. For all he knows Potter might be the same. 

Draco then changes into the grey vest and similarly-coloured trackies he likes to relax in and sits down on the edge of the bed. He rests his bare arms on his knees and lets out a breath he feels like he’s been carrying inside him for hours. He hangs his head, then stares at the corner of the room where he first saw the figure in his dreams. His mind is racing, the way his thoughts always do as soon as he has a moment to pause and properly let them come together. It makes sense, what Potter has told him, confirms Draco’s suspicions that the dreams were connected to Potter in some way. At the same time, it makes no sense at all. Draco’s never come across something like this. All he knows about the possible state of his own soul comes from the literature he’s managed to scare up on his travels about possible vampiric origins. He knows so little about Horcruxes, about magic that can scar a soul and leave it looking for a remedy on its own volition. He’s completely out of his depth. 

It’s powerfully exciting. More than ever, he wants to help. He wants to solve this for Potter, just as he wanted to help as soon as he learned Potter was searching for something. It feels good to have a purpose. 

It's also almost nice in a way, to be reminded of his own mortality―for there to possibly be something other than the sun that can truly hurt him. He decides to keep this thought to himself. 

Potter comes out of the small ensuite bathroom in a burst of warmth and dissipating steam. There’s a towel slung low on his waist, water droplets on his shoulders from his dripping hair. He’s tried to dry it, but it’s thick and still holding water. Draco considers not staring at his bare chest for a brief moment, then casts the thought away. He won’t ogle, he’s better than that, and besides. Potter’s had his cock down his throat; they’re past pretending they aren’t attracted to each other. 

"Thanks," Potter mutters as he takes the proffered clothes. Draco does look away when he drops his towel. 

It occurs to him, while Potter is dressing, that they haven’t broached the topic of sleeping arrangements. There isn’t a sofa Potter can sleep on, not really; the chaise longue in this flat is too small for anyone over four feet tall to comfortably sleep on. When Draco looks back, Potter has finished dressing. The cuffs of the pyjamas bottoms are a little too long; Potter has rolled them up, exposing knobbly ankles. Draco feels strangely endeared by this small thing, and by the visual confirmation that he is taller than Potter. He drags his eyes away and back to Potter’s tired face. 

"Take the bed," Draco says. "I don’t really even need to sleep." He feels strangely exposed saying this, in revealing this strange new quality in his life. 

Potter’s brow creases into the ghost of a frown. "You don’t need to give me the bed. I can sleep―"

"On the floor?" Draco interjects, smiling wryly. "I’m afraid that’s the only other option in this place. And I’m also afraid that the rules of hospitality, ingrained into me since childhood, won’t stand for it." Draco runs both hands through his hair, pushing it back and then tucking it behind his ears. "I’m certain I came out of the womb and my mother was likely showing me around the house, explaining where the amenities were and to make myself at home." 

Potter manages a weak but genuine smile at that. "Well, you can’t sleep on the floor either," he counters, kneeling up onto the bed. 

"I told you, I don’t really need to sleep―"

"So you’ll just sit in the armchair and watch _me_ sleep, will you? Definitely not creepy at all." Potter’s smile has turned cheeky as he pulls down the covers in order to get under them. The thick, dark curtains in Draco’s bedroom, as well as the charms on them, completely blot out the rising sun, and the lamp on Draco’s side table casts only the scantest light. The room is quite dark, but Draco can see Potter’s expression well enough. "I’d much rather you sleep with me, if those are the two options." 

It’s clever, Draco thinks, the way that Potter has avoided outright requesting Draco get in bed with him and yet made it clear all the same. Draco can understand that well enough. He would probably go to the same lengths to avoid admitting he doesn’t want to sleep alone. Draco can respect this level of sneakiness and self-protection. Perhaps those rumours about Potter almost being sorted into Slytherin were true, after all. 

He turns down the sheets on the left side of the bed and slips under them. They’re cool and comforting, not as good quality as the ones he has back home in London, but they’re familiar now. Potter turns onto his side, facing Draco as Draco mutters a _Nox_ to cast the room into complete darkness. The silence that comes with it feels deafening. Draco listens to it, tries to make himself feel comfortable. He can hear from the tone of Potter’s breathing that he’s not asleep yet either. It’s not surprising, therefore, when Potter speaks. 

"Thank you, Draco." Potter’s voice is heavy and tired, the words sleep-slurred. It takes Draco aback, the same way Potter saying he trusted Draco did. He’s not sure what the thank you is for, or exactly how Potter means it. It could be for trying to help him, for finding Darya, for listening to Potter’s story. It could be for as little as letting him sleep in his bed tonight. It doesn’t matter to Draco, really. Having Potter’s gratitude hits him hard, burrowing a home between his ribs. It’s another of those things, like having Potter’s touch, his friendship, his confidence, that Draco never imagined he would ever have freely given to him. It feels valuable beyond compare. 

"You’re welcome, Harry," Draco replies thickly. He hopes the choked-up quality of his voice can be disguised as tiredness, although he doubts this given he’s already confessed to Potter that he doesn’t even need to rest anymore. Draco lays on his back, keeping his breathing steady. He can tell that Potter is looking at him, and even though the room is dark Draco feels exposed. He turns and, feeling for Potter’s shoulder with one hand, pulls him into a kiss. Potter makes a faint sound of surprise before he responds, a soft press of lips against Draco’s, a hand on the back of his neck. 

Potter’s lips are soft, and his mouth tastes like mint. It’s the same spell Draco uses for his teeth in the evening, the familiar taste strange when it’s on the other end of a kiss. Potter is eager and subdued at the same time, kissing Draco back with a pace so much slower than the frenzied rush that hit them earlier in the club. It’s no less heady, though. They kiss lazily, for long, slow moments as things heat up between them. The build of pleasure in Draco’s gut as he presses up against Potter’s lean body is maddening, made all the more sharp for the slow way they move. It’s tantalising and comforting in a way, taking their time to bring each other to the edge. Draco feels his cock thickening with each grind against Potter, the corresponding hardness he feels between Potters legs spurring him on. Potter sucks on Draco's tongue, on his lower lip. He rolls their hips together, creating as dirty a rhythm as the one in the club, but which feels infinitely filthier in the quiet, dark intimacy of Draco's bed. 

When Potter pulls Draco on top of him, Draco is already closer to coming than he would expect. He settles between Potter's parted thighs, kissing him deeply before pulling away for a breath. He kisses down Potter's jaw, now smooth where before it was rough with stubble. Potter must have used a Shaving Charm when he showered. Draco kisses over his throat when Potter's arches his neck. He buries his face there, breathing in Potter's scent. There's no cologne left, just Draco's own shampoo and Potter's skin. It's intoxicating. Potter's hand is in Draco hair, keeping him where he is while the other grips at Draco's arse. Potter sets the rhythm, Draco circling his hips and thrusting down against Potter, guided by Potter's hand. 

"Do you want to bite me?" Potter asks, and Draco's hips stutter. He recovers quickly, fucking down against Potter's stiff cock through the soft material of their night clothes. "You can, if you want." 

Draco suppresses a groan at that, the rhythm of his hips stuttering. He opens his mouth against Potter's throat, presses his tongue against the gentle yet vital pulse point there. 

That's all he does. 

"Thank you," he murmurs against Potter's damp skin. "But I'm fine." He kisses Potter again, open mouthed and filthy, as he rolls his hips again. 

Potter makes a broken sound. "Sorry, if that was―" He gasps, then tries again. "Um, insensitive, or―" 

Draco chuckles, breathless as he keeps his pace and ruts down against Potter as if he were fucking him for real. Draco wants to, but not right now. Right now he wants nothing more than this, getting off in his bed like desperate teenagers. 

He doesn't want to taste anything more in his mouth than the salt from Potter's sweat-damp skin, than the lingering mint on his lips. Blood and fangs and dark appetites have no place in this room, Draco decides. 

He braces himself on his elbows to get better leverage, Potter's thighs rubbing against his hips and his breath hot and erratic against Draco's lips. "It's fine" He kisses Potter again, deep and hungry. "Not insensitive. Just, surplus to requirements," he explains. He means it too; it really is fine. He's done it before, bitten someone while getting off. For some people it's a powerful rush, submitting like that. For Draco, it can be euphoric. But it's alarming, too, to combine feeding with sex, and it truly is not necessary. If his carefully collected control were ever to slip, he worries it would be in the throes of either anger or passion. Draco perishes the thought. 

Potter nods, Draco's words seeming to soothe him, insofar as he hears them. His body feels strung taut, hips punching up against Draco's with enough force to throw their rhythm off. Draco leans his weight on one elbow, gripping Potter's hips with one hand to hand him down. That does it for Potter. He gasps against Draco's mouth, thighs clenching around Draco as the hand gripping Draco's arse holds him against him. Between Potter's hand in his hair and on his arse, Draco feels held in place, hips now moving uncontrollably as he feels dampness spread across Potter's lap. Draco groans against Potter's lips as he follows suit, coming in heated pulses between them. 

Draco lies against Potter, boneless and straining to hold himself up on one hand. He struggles to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs, slipping sideways and Summoning his wand before cleaning them both up with a murmured spell. Harry's breathing is still heavy when he pulls Draco in for a lingering kiss. It's messy, uncoordinated, and Draco's still reeling in the aftershocks of pleasure when their bodies touch. It's dizzyingly good. Slowly, they both settle back against the pillows, like sediment settling in water. Potter's eyes slip closed between kisses and he forces them open again; each time it takes a bit longer than the last. Draco can tell when drowsiness overcomes him, Potter's fingers going lax in his hair and his hand falling against his neck. Draco almost smiles, stupid and tender, but it feels too vulnerable a thing to expose to the room, even dark as it is. He slowly arranges Potter's arms into something more comfortable for both of them, and then settles on his back next to him. He takes care not to move too far away, though. 

Slowly, and for the very first time in the company of another person, Draco begins to meditate himself to sleep.

***

Draco is sitting on the end of his bed, one hand on each knee, the sheet pulled over his thighs. His feet are bare against the carpets. He can wiggle his toes, can extend his fingers and curve his wrists. It's more movement than he's had so far in these strange dreams. And he is certain this is a dream, once again. 

The figure is in the room, unmistakable in its shapeless presence—just a gleam of watchful eyes, a stirring in the air. 

Draco feels no threat, now that he understands this broken part of Potter that creeps out in the dark night and finds foothold in dreams. He's struck with the heaviest melancholy for this being, and for the one who is no doubt still sleeping beside him. Draco has no basis of comparison for Potter's life and the experiences he's been shaped by. They are so unique, so unusual, such a mixture of tragedy and success. But this seems especially cruel, even for a boy orphaned before he could speak, even for someone who has lost as much as Harry has. Draco doesn't understand what carrying the Horcrux, the shrivelled and putrid shard of Voldemort's own caustic soul, has done to Harry. It's unmistakable, though, that it's left a hollow where it once was, a void that hasn't been filled. A fracture in what was once a perfect whole. 

Draco stares at the figure in the room, just a dark shape in the already dark night, and wonders what it is, what it wants. If it _wants_ anything. Draco doesn't know how to fear this apparition. He won't until he has reason to. He refuses. Its presence, however, fills him with sadness.

He extends one hand as far as he can with this limited movement. He feels like he's lifting it though molasses, his motions slowed and heavy. He holds his hand out, palm up, as he watches the figure watch him. He doesn't know if he can touch it, if he would want to—if it's even really here. The soul, Draco knows, is a real thing, but it's also the most intangible of magical elements a wizard may possess. This shadowy being, born of the apparent hollow left inside Potter, seems impossible to touch, like trying to hold smoke in cupped palms. Still, Draco holds his palm out. 

Across the room, as subdued in movement as Draco's own honey-slowed motions, the figure raises the same hand. There's room between them, three feet or more, but Draco can make this out. He can see the shape of four fingers, a thumb. He can see the raised palm corresponding to Draco's hand. Draco's chest aches, but the feeling seems distant, as if slowed just as his movements are. The melancholy swirling inside him is there, but it feels more peaceful now. Resigned. 

Draco doesn't understand that figure in the room, holding its palm out towards Draco. He doesn't understand the man sleeping beside him in this bed, or how the two are connected. But he wants to. He wants it dearly. 

He stays where he is, reaching out towards the dark and feeling no threat as it reaches back.

***

Rising in the mornings is a distant memory to Draco. The evening blooms around them instead. 

Draco lets Potter sleep. He seems like he needs it, has barely moved at all in the hour or so Draco has been awake and reading at his desk. He's tried not to watch Potter sleep, of course; Potter's right, it would be creepy, no matter how besotted Draco may feel right now. 

And he does feel besotted. It's not a new feeling exactly. Draco's never before felt love for Potter. Admiration from afar, and then bitter and covetous jealousy, and then something like a helpless and useless crush in his sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts. He knows none of those are love, or being in love. They're branches on the same tree, perhaps. And none of them are the same as the fondness he feels now, and knowing he is _allowed_ to feel it. They're on the same side, he and Potter. There is history between them, as there always will be, but Draco doesn't need to condemn himself for his attraction the way his teenage self would have. 

The difference between then and now feels vast. It feels earned, as well; Draco is not the same person he was then. Potter, asleep in Draco's bed in a messy sprawl, is not the same boy either. Draco revels in these differences, in the opportunity he sees there. He feels galvanised this evening after Potter's revelations and Draco's most recent dream. Things make more sense, pieces for Draco to try and put together to make a solid picture. This is, after all, what he does. He investigates, he solves things. 

Draco's finished jotting down his notes and sipping on his tea when Potter stirs. His hair is a riot, having been slightly damp when he went to sleep, and there are pillow creases on his cheeks. He rubs at his eyes and then reaches for his glasses on the side table. He looks around the room, seeming vaguely surprised to take in his surroundings, and for the briefest moment Draco wonders if Potter will regret this. Regret talking to Draco about such personal things, regret sleeping with him, regret all of it. It's a horrifying thought, and thankfully one that dissipates as Potter looks at Draco and smiles. Draco smiles back, relieved and pleased. He twirls the feather quill in his fingers, the nib resting against his paper pad. It leaves an ink smudge there, but it's no matter. 

"Evening," he greets. "Sleep well?" 

Potter nods, still blinking sleep out of his eyes. "Yeah." He yawns, wide enough to crack his jaw. "Like a log, actually." 

"You did seem rather loggish, yes." 

"Oh, so you did end up watching me sleep?" Potter counters. 

Draco bursts a laugh, solid and genuine. "Only glimpses. Hardly watching." He bites his lip, looking down at his notepad, at the books. He carries half a library with him these days, shrunk into a small briefcase. He got several out when he awoke, strewn around him now. He isn't best sure how to broach this subject with Potter, of what he's been doing. He decides against his usual bluntness. 

"Do you like Berlin?" Draco watches the twirl of his quill and fights to keep his pulse steady. 

Potter's frown is equal parts confused and sleepy. "Berlin?" He clears his throat. "I've never been, to be honest. Why?" 

"Well." Draco taps the nib of his quill on his parchment in three short motions, before he drops it. He faces Potter properly. "I know someone there. I was thinking about it, while you slept. She… could know something useful. Merlin knows she owes me enough favours to tell us what she does know, anyway. We could go there. Together. If you like." 

Potter blinks at him. "Together?"

"Yes, well." Draco forces a smile to cover his nervousness. "I could, of course, also send you there alone with her information, if you prefer. As your hired investigator, though, it would make sense I go with you. I have friends in some very low places. It may be useful." Draco bites his lip. He watches the play of emotions across Potter's face and tries not to overthink this. 

"You want to help me?" Potter sits up even straighter, his back against the headboard. "You're… still working this case?" 

Draco shrugs, even though he feels far from casual. "Of course. I said I would help, and I did. I found Darya. I can find more. If you want me to, that is." He clears his throat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "I can also fuck off and leave it alone." 

Potter breathes out on a laugh. "I don't want you to fuck off." He's smiling still. Draco likes the sight of it so much. Potter sighs. "You did listen to me last night, didn't you." He's not asking. His voice sounds resigned, but Draco hears that he's seeking confirmation all the same. 

"I did," Draco affirms. "Every word of it." 

Potter tilts his head to the side. "Then you know I'm dangerous. I could hurt you, without even knowing it. I know you think I won't, and it's fine, but I need to know you take this seriously." 

Draco sits still for a moment, weighing his next words. He stands, and then moves across the room to sit on the bed next to Potter. He wants to take Potter's hand, but he doesn't. He rests his palm against the duvet instead. 

"Do you remember, earlier when we were in bed," Draco begins, "you offered your throat to me." 

"Oh." Potter's face flushed slightly. "Um. Yeah, I do." 

"Don't be embarrassed." Draco smiles. "I'm not making fun. But you do realise, I could hurt you. I'm dangerous." He repeats Potter's own words, not to be facetious or a prick. "It's not hard for a vampire to take a life, or so I've been told. I didn't notice it happening to me," Draco admits. 

Potter's face creases in concern, and Draco wants to wave it off, to make a joke, but he forces himself not to. He wants this to land, what he's saying here. "My point is," Draco goes on, "that you might be dangerous. And I _know_ I can be. And I do understand what you said last night, why you left your friends. I do," Draco repeats sincerely. "In turn, I ask that you make sure you've heard what I'm saying too." 

Draco does rest his hand on Potter's knee now, just lightly. Potter takes a long moment before he responds, which Draco takes as positive. He hates being so dire, so dramatic. All the same, he isn't exaggerating. 

"Okay." Potter nods. "I've heard you. So." Potter smiles wryly. "I guess we do this, and just try not to kill each other then, yeah?" 

Draco's mouth turns down as he considers. "Sounds familiar, really." 

Potter's laugh sounds shocked. "A bit, yeah." He bites his lip, then lets out a sigh. This time it sounds less heavy. There's almost a tone of excitement in it now. 

"So. Berlin?" 

Draco nods. "Berlin. For a start." 

"When can you leave?" 

"In two days. Maybe less." Draco shrugs one shoulder. "I've no real commitments left here. Yourself?" 

"No," Potter says on a laugh. He's looking down at Draco's hand. He slowly traces a finger over Draco's knuckles. "I've nothing else here. I can leave whenever you're ready." 

"Good," responds Draco. He knows he sounds eager. He doesn't bother to hide it. "I'll make some Floo calls. Let some people know to expect me. We can surprise the rest." 

Potter nods, holding Draco's gaze. Draco feels struck by those eyes again, startled once more by how vibrant, how intense they can be. 

Draco doesn't want to make any promises about how they are going to figure this out, how they can find a fix for what is going on. He doesn't want to lie, even though he feels confident they can uncover _some_ thing of use. Sometimes that's all there is, at the end of a case. There are no cures, no magical resolutions or closure, but there is always an ending. The chase, the discovery, can often be the best part. He wants to work on this with Potter― _Harry_ ―to find answers for him, a resolution as best they can. He deserves that, and Draco knows that he can help. 

He doesn't know how to put this into words, for all that he is a loquacious man. Instead, Draco moves his hand, lays it out on the bed between them palm up. 

This time, Potter doesn't hesitate before he takes it.

***

**Author's Note:**

> say hello to me on [tumblr](https://shiftylinguini.tumblr.com/) if you like xxx


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